


Sidewinders

by Shakana



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Blow Jobs, Coitus Interruptus, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rimming, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakana/pseuds/Shakana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smartest people were the ones that realized having the biggest gun didn’t make you the baddest enemy. No matter how many layers of polished iron you hid behind, the wastes knew who you really were. Tired. Sick. Dying. A fragile thing in the Mojave. The ones you had to look out for were the people who could survive without it all. Guns, medicine, food – you name it. They didn’t need to look for it. Because all they had to do was ask and the wasteland would scramble and tear itself apart to put it in their hands. </p><p>Those were the ones you had to watch out for.  The ones who could make a silver tongue smoother than Old World silk and stronger than any armor. The deadliest snakes were the ones curled in New Vegas Casinos, in Legion war tents, underground bunkers, and Goodsprings dirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake up Loverboy

The smartest people were the ones that realized having the biggest gun didn’t make you the baddest enemy. No matter how many layers of polished iron you hid behind, the wastes knew who you really were. Tired. Sick. Dying. A fragile thing in the Mojave. The ones you had to look out for were the people who could survive without it all. Guns, medicine, food – you name it. They didn’t need to look for it. Because all they had to do was ask, and have the wasteland would scramble and tear itself apart to put it in their hands. Those were the ones you had to watch out for. The ones who could make a silver tongue smoother than Old World silk, and stronger than any armor. The deadliest snakes were the ones curled in New Vegas Casinos, in Legion war tents, underground bunkers, and Goodsprings dirt.  
  
***  
  
If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?  
William Shakespeare  
  
  
His skin felt tight: Like it had been stretched across his face too hard and forced the corners of his eyes open. The feeling is what woke him up, and led to their true opening. Light poured in immediately, and the pain made him jerk up from the flimsy mattress he’d been spread across. The metal creaked from the sudden movements and the sound made his eardrums ache like he’d been visiting a firing range. A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him forward; an anchor against the sudden vertigo that had swept through him. In any other circumstance he would have questioned the sudden presence at his side, but, at the moment, it was more reassuring than threatening.  
  
The blinding light in his eyes began to die out and his pupils expanded as they took in the dark clinic he’d been admitted to. Sat in front of him was an old man, whose leather skin looked too untouched for someone who lived in the wastes.  
  
“Whoa, easy there - easy there. You’ve been out cold a couple of days now.”  
  
He’d been shot. In…His hand ran over the lump above his eye, to the side. The head. His fingertips traced the scarred skin, running over the newly sewn stitches and strips of gauze that had mostly fallen off during his thrashing. The old man – a doctor, apparently – kept talking through it all while he rubbed the shaved portion of his skull.  
  
“What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?” he said slowly, in a methodical way that gave the impression he was used to this line of questioning. Albeit, in different circumstances, most likely. Probably. Hopefully. He wasn’t sure if it was comforting or not that the town dealt with many bullet-to-the-head scenarios.  
  
“Becket.” He croaked. His lips felt chapped, and it made him scowl. How unappealing.

***  
  
Goodsprings intrigued him. To find something in the Mojave that seemed so detached and independent was amazing in itself, but the townspeople were another thing entirely. Everyone he met radiated a kind of innocence and charity that curled the corners of his mouth back in a smile. They welcomed him, unquestioningly, from the moment he stumbled out of Doc Mitchell’s house with a knife strapped to his thigh and a 10mm in his pocket.  
  
None of them remembered him coming through in the days prior, and besides, the way dust tracked across every surface, he doubted many people came through anyways. The only ones they remembered were a couple of “high rollers”. The descriptions prompted nothing in him: only skittering the corners of his memories and alluding to some big picture - his own apathy making the whole “revenge” angle a moot point. He was shot. Fantastic. The only thing he wanted now was to find out what exactly he’d lost.  
  
He did them a few favors. It was simple errands they could have done themselves, honestly, but it seemed like they were looking for excuses to keep him in town. As covert as they thought they’d been, he saw the curious eyes that found his shaved head. They still worried for him. Eventually, they ran out of things. Everything rewarded with a handful of caps, crinkling smiles, and pledges of allegiance if help was ever needed. He smiled again. Too kind to strangers. One day, they’d find one who wouldn’t leave peacefully.  
  
They were all going to die, and Goodsprings would fall where he rose.  
  
On his way out of town, the robot came to him. Seeing it, pain seared across his temples and light pulsed up through images. Metal. Lights. Little fingers. They dissipated immediately, but it stirred something in him. His heart beat quicker, and suddenly, found a deep fascination towards the roaming Securitron.  
  
The smooth cowboy drawl made his head buzz. Memories, pushing and tearing through the dark and reaching out, flickered past. He remembered the sand, seeping into him, before metal hands scooped him from the grave. This thing saved his life.  
  
A robot cowboy telling him to go to New Vegas and chase down the High Rollers who’d put the one-two in his skull. Fucking amazing. Ridiculously, impossibly crazy, but amazing. Travel the wastes just to put a bullet in some greaser’s skull, and hope something turns up to treat your brain damage and total amnesia. Absolutely ridiculous.  
  
For the first time since he’d opened his eyes, Becket felt alive.

  
***  
  
On his way to Vegas, little things popped up. He’d dream about small fingers, clutched around his wrists. Hair tickling his throat. A small voice asking to go outside. He’d wake up feeling like he’d been having a heart attack and a fever at the same time. His temples would throb for hours afterwards, and it distracted him more than once. ED-E was the only thing between him and death, most of those times; the little eye-bot beeping up a storm every time something drew near.  
  
It started something in him. For the first time since that moment in Goodsprings, he felt alive. Alive, and ready to tear the life out of anything even remotely resembling a High Roller New Vegas boy. The absence of memories became torture. Everywhere he looked, his skin prickled as if he’d been there before. But no one claimed to remember him, or know of a Courier Six at all. Even the Mojave Outpost, where he’d supposedly worked, had no records of a Becket in their books. It curled the anger in him to a fine point, lashing out at every opportunity. He never allowed it to interfere – not in public. In the privacy of the wasteland, however, he let it curdle in the heat. Some things, even Raiders don’t deserve. He left them tossed to the road’s edge, purple, naked. Anything of value taken and stuffed in the storage banks of ED-E and his own pack. Whatever remained, the wastes would claim when he turned his back. And that was fine with him.  
  
The night he found Nipton was the one where he met the Legion, and found another outlet.  
  
A Powder Ganger – Owen? Orville? – He didn’t quite hear what name the man had been screaming - ran up to him in the ruins of a nearby gas station. A blink later, and Becket had shot a kneecap off on impulse. Stupid move. Running up to someone in the dark? That was Vault Dweller naivety. The man went down screaming, scrambling behind a nearby block of concrete for cover and dragging his leg behind him. Blood gushed across the dirt and coated his fingers red as he grasped the shattered bone shards. By the time his shaking hands found a rock to defend himself with, Becket had already flanked and kicked it away.  
  
“But I won!” The man screamed. “I won the fucking lottery, and you don’t get to take it away from me!”  
  
“What lottery?” Becket quirked a brow, leaning against the wall and looking down. His fatigues were spotted with flecks of blood. His pistol was trained on Owen-Orville’s head.  
  
“What lottery?” The man wheezed like it was the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard. “The lottery! I won! First place gets to go free – that’s me – and the rest, well, who cares? They didn’t win. I did.” He laughed; a hideous sound that made Becket want to kill him instantly.  
  
He looked down at the Ganger, considering, and waved his gun towards the smoking town. “Are they still there?”  
  
“Who?” Owen-Orville breathed. The adrenaline apparently numbed the pain from his leg, because he continued to fidget and bounce it out of nervousness.  
  
“The ones who ran the lottery.”  
  
“Well, yeah, I guess. They were still hanging people up when I left.” He shrugged it off nonchalantly, seeming to have put the past behind him already.  
  
“Hmm.” Becket stared at him a moment longer, and smiled. “Great.” Then put two bullets in Owen-Orville’s skull.  
  
When the body slumped he went through pockets for anything good. He found the kid’s prison ID and laughed when he found the name Oliver Swanick. Close enough.  
  
***

Vulpes Inculta was the man Becket could have become, if he could put aside the last shreds of his morality. Shrewd, intelligent, manipulative. Bathed in the light of a dying town, the man definitely cut a fierce figure.  
  
“So…” Becket called out, walking the center of the road. To his sides, the crucified Powder Gangers moaned in pain, eyes tracking him like starved wolves. Ahead, Legion recruits fanned out and whispered to themselves in a dead language, pointing at crates of supplies salvaged from town and the remaining bodies that were to be thrown in the tire pits. They saw his approach and, skittishly, one ran inside the building behind them. Likely to get his superior officer. The rest stood firm, hands twitching on their bloodied machetes in case he opened fire.  
  
A moment later, the town hall’s front doors swung open and two Legion recruits walked out. Between them, a third stood wearing the head of a wolf. The recruits fell away and the man walked towards him without hesitance. Becket felt warm, and smiled. Flames cast him in a dark shadow, and his eyes twinkled from behind the mask.  
  
“Should I be running? As…Pleasant as crucifixion sounds.”  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates. It’s useful that you happened by.” The man gave him a thin-lipped smile, revealing the tips of surprisingly white, filed canines. The thought of doing it made him cringe. The things people did for beauty…  
  
“Oh?” He feigned disinterest. “What did you have in mind?”  
  
The Wolf-head considered him with pale eyes. The fires around them flecked red across his gaze in the moment before he blinked and spoke. “I want you to spread word of what happened here. I want the world to know of the Legion’s actions, and what happens to those who resist Caesar’s guidance.”  
  
Becket stared “And this,” he turned, motioning to the death around them. The smell of burning bodies filled the air. A thick, nauseating aroma mixed in with the burning rubber that turned skies black and wound smoke serpents in the sky. All around, the sound of death permeated. Houses collapsing, crunching bones, slave collars clinking, victims sobbing. “This is what your Caesar does?”  
  
“We will cleanse this world as he says. The Legion will spread, and it is time the Profligates accept this truth.” The man looks at him, face cold and filled with the authority death has granted him. The recruits stare at them with bulging eyes - in awe and reverence of the words Wolf-head recited. It was clearly their first massacre. But to the man in front of him, just another notch in the belt. The thought sparked a sense of respect in his stomach.  
  
“Well then. I’ll do my best not to piss him off.”


	2. No Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I grossly underestimated how long it would take me to get to Freeside in this story, so no Arcade this time around ):

Nomercy  
  
“Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.”  
William Shakespeare  
  
***  
  
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck just stop!”  
  
He kicked dirt into the screaming raider’s face and swung once with the lead pipe he’d picked up in an old gas station. The man, a scrawny mix of Jet and too-long limbs, bent over himself to dodge and tripped over the group’s campfire pit. Ash plumed into the air and Becket swerved when a kitchen knife cut the smoke in two. The raider lunged. His arm looked irritated; black veins and pink skin from the belt tied across his biceps. From his forearm, a needle swung and clicked against his shirt buckles– still fully imbedded. He’d probably fallen asleep without bothering to remove it, and now the dry skin gave a weak attempt to close itself around it.  
  
The lunge was weak, though, and Becket knocked the flailing limb aside with the pipe. He dropped it and drew the knife strapped to his thigh, driving it into the soft space between the man’s ribs. There was a soft gurgle, and Becket drew the raider in close. He torqued upward and the man wheezed before slumping in his grasp.  
  
Becket frowned, wiping the dirt from his face. “Next time, quit stabbing and run.”   
  
He dropped the body and looked at his Pipboy. 5:30, PM. The hill the raiders were camped on offered a nice view of the landscape. The orange-red hues of the sun crept across the sky and contrasted against the blue dunes surrounding him. To the West, Nipton’s rubber flames were still burning bright. Even from the distance, he could tell the town was deserted. No one had gone through to check, aside from himself. Further to the South, he’d heard about the NCR outpost. Maybe in a few days, he’d drop by. If there was time.  
  
The East was his target. “Through Nipton to Novac.” Beagle said, gasping wetly after he’d pushed through the Bison’s doors. “To meet a contact.”  
  
He’d never heard of Novac, or Nipton, or Primm. Before leaving town, he asked around and smiled when they gave him funny looks.  
  
“How is it a Courier don’t know whe’ Novac is? You eat too many of Ruby’s pies?” One of the casino patrons asked – an older man with a deep farmer’s tan. He was chewing on a strip of wood torn from the roulette tables and spat it out whenever he took a sip of whisky. Becket liked him immediately.  
  
“Maybe that’s why they shot me,” He laughed, feeling it deep in his stomach. He pushed the brim of his hat back and grinned. “I was a shit Courier.”  
  
As it turned out, Novac wasn’t that far. From Nipton, keep walking East for a day or so, until you see Dinky. Whoever the hell that was. He had no idea what counted as a “normal“ name anymore, but his gut told him it wasn’t that. Apparently, not everyone listened to that feeling. He’d met someone named Scrambler, for Christ’s sake, and couldn’t think about anything but eggs whenever the man walked into the room. As far as Dinky went, the old man wouldn’t say. He almost choked on his whisky from laughter when Becket pressed the topic. “The first time I saw him, it was dark out. Near shit myself when I saw that big bastard on the horizon. I couldn’t bring myself to deprive you of the same experience.”  
  
That was three days ago, before Nipton. He hadn’t slept in a real bed since Goodsprings and his bones were beginning to feel it. Everything ached and groaned when he moved to loot the raiders, and for a moment, he considered camping there for the night. The hill was somewhat enclosed, and across the way there was a sign he could hide behind if needed. But his back screamed at the idea of another night of scorpion-infested bedrolls. In the distance, a canyon held another NCR outpost bracketed by tall metal towers that dotted the road he’d been following. Beyond that, he couldn’t see.  
  
Beside him, ED-E beeped and zoomed around. He patted the bot’s chasse and sighed. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll find my High Roller waiting with open arms and clean mattresses.”  
  
He started walking.

***  
  
He screamed when he first saw Dinky.  
  
By the time they passed through the NCR outpost, the sun was long gone. The canyon, in particular, was shielded from whatever light the moon offered. When he rounded the corner and pulled out a stolen pair of binoculars – the dead mayor had no eyes to use it anyway – the last thing he’d expected to see was a dinosaur. The sudden mass made him think a gecko snuck up while he’d been scoping and charged. He threw them down and nearly pistol-whipped ED-E in the process of moving back to aim.  
  
Screamed was...not the word he’d used. Shrieked? Definitely. He realized a moment later and laughed until tears cut through the grime. After, he picked up the pace and slithered through the brushes until the rest of Novac grew around him. ED-E beeped at passersby, earning them both weary looks. His fatigues were blotched in deep red streaks that no surgeon could ever produce, and his weapons were covered in layers of dirt and grime. From them, at least, he’d managed to clear the blood.  
  
The town was built around a center building connected to… Dinky. A hollowed out building in the shape of a giant green dinosaur. He stared, leaning against the fence that enclosed it all. “Ridiculous.”  
  
He loved it.  
  
The door to his right opened. “Well hello th- Oh God have mercy!”  
  
He slid away from the door and backed away, staring into the wide eyes of a middle aged woman. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, sharp eyes looking him up and down frantically, assessing every detail.  
  
“You – Are you-“ There was a sharp intake of breath. “Legion?”  
He raised his hands; dropping the empty bottle of water he’d been holding and speaking slowly. “No mam. You folks had something of a raider problem – just outside of town, actually. They caught me and my buddy here on our way in, and I’m afraid we didn’t have much time to clean up.”  
  
She paused, visibly releasing the tension she’d been holding. “Oh my goodness.” With a deep sigh, she leaned further into the door and ran a hand through grey hairs. “I am so, so sorry you were troubled by those... those savages! Normally, we would have taken care of it by now, but with the Legion so close, our dear snipers have been busy.”  
  
He gave her a reassuring smile. “It was no trouble. I’m just glad to finally make it here.”  
  
It seemed to be the right thing to say, because her face brightened even more. It made her look ten years younger, to his amazement. She leaned forward and took his hand, squeezing and shaking it firmly. “We’re glad to have you! Please, come on in, and we’ll get you cleaned right up.”  
  
The woman – who hadn’t introduced herself yet – ushered him into what appeared to be the hotel lobby. She darted behind the counter and grabbed a set of keys, decorated with little versions of Dinky, before circling back and pointing to the chairs behind him.  
  
“You have a seat right there, and I’ll go get a few things.”  
  
Without waiting for an answer, she jogged out the door. He stepped away from the chairs and went to the desk.  
  
The front was lined with miniature Dinkys’ – he was beginning to sense a theme here – and a few spare caps. There was a broken terminal used for decoration, and a small tin with unique divisions. Each box labeled by name or room number.  
  
“Daisy, Craig, vacant, Manny…” He muttered, fingertips brushing over the extra key sets. He left them and looked over the counter, at the floor fault. “What do we have here?” The vault’s green light blinked up at him. To his side, he saw a shadow pass over the covered windows. Briskly, he slipped back in front of the countertop and began perusing the wall art. A moment later the door chimed and the hostess returned, arms full of towels and dirtied water.  
  
“I managed to cobble this together, on short notice. I hope it’ll do.” She gave him a nervous smile and set the things on his empty chair. She stared at it a moment and frowned, but wiped it away a moment after. He filed the expression for later and moved towards her to accept the items.  
  
“A real angel, you are.” He picked up the things and watched the way she eyed him up, unsure of how she felt. He knew he was attractive, and wasn’t afraid to exploit this advantage if it meant he could sleep on a cushioned surface. Alone or not.  
  
She waved him off. “Oh, don’t think much of it. In Novac, we pride ourselves on hospitality.”  
  
“Still, thank you kindly, miss…?” He remembered to ask. Always good to know a name. Never know when you’d need it.  
She bristled; jaw dropping for a moment before collecting herself. “Oh my, I was so caught up in making a good impression I forgot to introduce myself! My name is Jeannie May, I run this hotel.”  
  
“Jeanie, it is so good to meet you. I go by Becket.” He shook her hand again, and noticed the time on his Pipboy. 8:00pm. Getting late. She smiled back at him with thin lips and sharp eyes. She liked him, but the nature of that interest was a mystery still. Customer? Scavenger? Lover? She looked like she was about to broach the topic when he spoke first. “I am so sorry to cut this short, but I think I’d really love a chance to make myself presentable. Do you have any rooms available, for the night?”  
  
A flash of disappointment crinkled her features back into their normal age. Professional distance took over. “Of course! 100 caps a night.”  
  
His muscles relaxed like it was the greatest thing he’d ever heard. “I’ll take it.”

***  
  
On the way up to the room, he asked Jeanie May about the High Roller. It was music to his ears when she scoffed, apparently disgusted by the memory. Because disgust meant he’d been here, recently. The trail shortened. Only a matter of time, now.  
  
“They stayed with Manny, one of our snipers. Don’t know why he’d want to mix with that sort.”  
  
“Did he know them?” Becket pressed, looking out over the rails. A few people moved back and forth from the gift shop and hotel, barely casting a glance in his direction.  
  
“I couldn’t say for sure, you know. Talk to Manny in the morning. He has the day shift.” Jeanie smiled and opened the door, presenting it like a gift to be unwrapped. “All yours. I’ll be right down stairs if you need anything.”  
  
He slipped in.

***  
  
ED-E was what woke him in the morning. The little robot was playing showtunes at full blast, whirring around the room and happily bobbing to the beat. Becket smiled to himself tiredly and slipped up from bed, pulling back on his boxers and moving to the bathroom. The moment Jeannie May had shut the door, the night prior; he’d stripped and fallen right into bed. His Pipboy rested on the bedside table while the blood-soaked clothes were in a crumpled pile by the doorway. He picked them up on his way along with the towels and bottle water.  
  
The bathroom was in better condition then he expected. The bathtub didn’t work – of course – but the sink managed a steady stream of water he used to wash his face. The mirror was cracked down the side from what looked like a fist-sized hole. Apparently, someone had a bad morning. He stared into the cracked image and ran soap through his hair, which had become quite unruly. It was long enough to tickle the base of his neck and gave him enough length to bobby pin back, if needed. His facial hair had grown out quite a bit since Goodsprings, so he went ahead and trimmed it back into a 5 ‘o clock shadow. He washed out his hair in the sink and toweled dry before staring at the reflection in front of him. It was the first time he’d been alone with a mirror.  
  
Across his chest, thin white scars curved, always ending before they reached the middle, and some extending up and over his shoulder. Those were the worst. He’d always wondered why the aches there never stopped, and now he could see. Deep cuts marred the skin and gave it a strange texture he ran his fingers over. The other shoulder looked untouched. He stepped back and continued, turning and lifting to see everything.  
  
The insides of his thighs had more. Lower down, but still above his knees. These were thicker and looked like they hadn’t healed right at the time and had been concentrated in a few select areas. They didn’t hurt when he touched.  
  
His gaze slowly returned to the mirror. Nothing. He touched them, memorizing every detail, and nothing happened. No memory, not even a feeling to point him in the right direction. It was complete detachment from this body, these scars, and their stories. Looking in the mirror was like seeing a picture of someone else. It didn’t feel real. When he touched the skin keeping him alive, it wasn’t his. It was Courier Six. He was temporary. A fragment. None of this belonged to him. Becket probably wasn’t even his real name.  
  
He ran his hands lower, kneeling to feel the edge of his ankles and feet. There, on his right, something had been cut in. The raised skin was smoother and cut more precise than the others. He recognized his own handwriting.  
  
NEL

***

He didn’t leave the room until late afternoon, but when he did, everything felt different. For the first time in days he felt clean, hydrated and completely refreshed. His pupils dilated in the bright light and he winced down the staircase, muscles still sore from the raider fight.  
Beyond the gates, people walked from house to house and wandered into the tent set up to the far side of town where drinks were served. A few passed him and smiled, welcoming him into town and asking if he needed help.  
  
He avoided the Dinky giftshop for the time being and walked around town. A few of the locals chatted with him and gave odd jobs for spare caps. He wrote them down and slipped the notepad back into his pocket before moving on. There was a junkyard down the road he visited that was infested with dogs. Two ran up when he turned down the road and took turns winding between his legs and licking his hands. The shop itself didn’t have anything appealing, but he played nice with the old woman who ran it and asked if she needed anything.  
  
By the time he returned to the hotel, it was sunset. The giftshop stairs creaked under his weight and the smell of artificial cherry fumed from the building when he walked in. The store clerk looked up when he entered in and spent the next ten minutes trying to sell him dinosaur figurines. Amazing what you could find in small towns.  
  
“That’s – that’s well, not exactly what I’m looking for. “ He chewed his bottom lip and shrugged. “But I’ll take one. “  
  
“Excell-ent choice.” The man grinned, stretching the words out while he picked out the figurine with the best condition. “Can I interest you in anything else?”  
  
“Your daytime sniper, is he working?”  
  
“He is! Go right on up. But be careful! They startle easily, you know, and we don’t want anyone gettin’ shot.”  
  
Becket slipped the figurine into his back pocket and offered small thanks before moving. His heart began to beat in quick repetition and he could feel its pulse in his chest. He was wearing a clean set of clothes and still had a knife strapped to his thigh, hidden under a bandana and within reach. The dinosaur’s mouth looked like a compact area, and it’d be easier to slash than fire off a gun if push came to shove.  
  
He stepped through and Vargas turned around, eyes narrowed.  
  
“Can I help you?” The question wasn’t said with malice.  
  
“Manny Vargas, yeah?” Becket closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Two full-grown men made the room smaller than he’d thought, with only three feet between them. He could smell the Old World cologne Vargas used.  
  
“Yeah, that’s me. What can I do for you?” Vargas set the rifle down and leaned on it, eyes flickering over him, sizing up.  
  
Becket smiled and gave a nervous laugh, running a hand through his clean hair. “Well, I just got into town last night. Been looking for someone, see. Jeannie May pointed me in your direction.”  
  
Something softened in his face at the name. “She’d be right. I see most people who come through town, when I’m on duty. You see a rifle sticking out of the dinosaur’s mouth, fifty-fifty shot it’s me or Boone. Chances are I saw who you’re looking for.”  
  
“A New Vegas boy. Wears a daisy suit.”  
  
The sentence hung between them in silence. Vargas’ expression immediately closed off with military precision. No more games.  
  
“Yeah, I know him. What do you want with him?”  
  
Becket smiled. His fingers twitched. There was a spot just above his collar where a knife could fit. “Have some questions for him.”  
  
Vargas sighed. “Yeah, yeah I bet you do. Benny. Shitty guy, once you get to know him. A real snake. He came through a couple of days ago – left the next morning.”  
  
“Where to?” Becket moved forward from the door. Everything muted except for the man in front of him, who continued to stonewall. He shifted, gaze leaving Becket and wandering off to the desert. Vargas shifted for a moment before turning back, eyeing him up again.  
  
“Look, normally I’d have no problem telling you where he is. But I got problems, and you look like you can handle yourself.”  
  
Ah.  
  
He took a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I handle a lot of things.”  
  
Vargas startled, looking at him with wide eyes before coughing and continuing on. Once he started, his face began to relax and get enraptured with the topic: helping Novac. Becket listened, nodding and speaking where appropriate, while the man explained their Ghoul problem. The whole time, though, Vargas’ gaze would drop – if only for a second – before reconnecting with his own. Becket’s brow quirked whenever it happened, staring him down without hesitation. Vargas ignored him.  
  
“So that’s it. You want information, you help out a little. Sound like a deal?”  
  
Becket hummed, nodding. “Sounds like a deal.”  
  
Sincere surprise crossed Manny’s face. “Really? Just like that?”  
  
“Just like that.” Becket stood straight, the same height as the sniper, and noticed how tense he looked. Hours and hour of standing, muscles tensed, really took a toll on this guy. He wondered if people like Manny ever really relaxed. “I’ve met men like you before.” Maybe. “Underappreciated, overworked. It’s fucked up, you know? Someone has to help you guys out every once and awhile. It’s only fair.”  
  
Something lit up behind the sniper’s eyes. He understands.  
  
“Yeah man, yeah. Everyone takes it for advantage, y’know? I don’t have to be here. I mean, I want to be, but still. It’s nice to be appreciated.” He gave Becket a grin, and Becket mirrored it back.  
  
This is how he lived.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.” He extended his hand and Manny shook it. “I’ll be in town a couple of days before heading to REPCONN. If you want, drinks on me when your shift ends. You look like you could do with some whisky.”  
  
Benny bit with venom.  
  
Manny smiled at him, and for a moment, the grip on his hand lingered. “I get off at 9. Meet me by the tents.”  
  
Becket just bit.  
  
Later, they did just that. Behind the tents and against the wall of an abandoned house, Becket crowded him into the chipped paneling, one hand in Manny’s NCR beret and the other wrapped around his cock. Manny’s breath hitched in his ears, groaning with the slow upstroke of his wrist. His pressed his own length onto Manny’s leg and moaned at the friction it created. He hadn’t taken himself in hand once since Goodsprings – no time on the road. It felt like touching himself for the first time; everything was bright and ached deep in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Manny’s wandering hands slid up his shirt and raked down his front, pebbling his nipples before rolling them between his fingertips. Becket pushed his shoulder into the sniper and pinned him further, listening to the quiet moans. The weight in his hands felt good, but he took his hand to spit. He squeezed and ran his thumb over the head, smearing precome down the sides to ease his quick strokes. Manny breathed in quick through his nose, head lolling back and hitting the wall. “Ohhh fuck.”  
  
Becket chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear, big guy.” He sped up, groaning when Manny began to mouth along his neck and behind his ears. Then, with a pained gasp, Manny grabbed his wrist and stopped it. Becket looked up with a quirked brow and lidded eyes.  
  
“Sorry, didn’t want to lose it before you even got your pants off.” Manny gave him an awkward smile, eyes shining in the light. He flipped them, shoving Becket into the wall before sinking to his knees. The anticipation made his cock twitch and a small moan escaped his well-bit lips. The front of his boxers were revealed as Manny slid his belt off and shoved the fatigues down. A moment later, Manny mouthed at his head before taking it all in one go. Becket wheezed, hands flying out to curl in the Khan’s short tuffs. It felt like too much, so much – and he lost himself in it. Manny’s mouth sucked him in expertly and squeezed him in all the right ways.  
  
He looked down and stared until Manny looked up, eyes glazed over and thick lips stretched around him. He winked and sucked upward, running his teeth lightly over the veins and flushed skin. In a rush, Manny pressed him further back into the wall and continued at a precise, hollowed-cheek, pace. Becket gasped, wet and broken, and came. Manny didn’t let up and kept going, working him through the pulses and swallowing it all down. The continued stimuli made his eyes roll back and moan weakly, switching to a hum when Manny let him go and stood up.  
  
His whole body felt relaxed and numbed. This mind’s first orgasm. It almost made him laugh – getting his cherry popped behind a portable bar.  
  
With lidded eyes, he moved to switch their positions back again. Manny’s length twitched in his palm. This time he kissed down the Khan’s neck, whispering filth and jerking him in smooth movements until the man groaned and gripped the back of his neck tightly. Cum streaked between them and Becket smiled at the novelty. Until later, when he had to clean the fatigues a second night in a row.  
  
Manny breathed heavily, leaning forward and breaking off into a chuckle. “That’s one way to handle a situation.”  
  
Becket hummed, tucking them both away and smiling. “It never hurts to practice.”  
  
“You know, just for that, I’ll tell you.” Manny laughed, resting his head back against the building. Becket grinned at him.  
  
“Tell me what?”  
  
“Boulder City.” Manny shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, still chuckling. “That’s where you’re gonna find Benny. When you get there, though, maybe hold off on this kind of welcome.”  
  
“Naturally.”

***  
  
Twenty minutes later, they walked back to the Dino-D-Lite hotel and chatted. They split up once they passed the lobby, and he winked a goodnight before heading to his room. Manny’s gaze lingered for a moment before whistling, quiet enough that only the two of them heard. Becket threw his head back and laughed. He climbed the stairs, still feeling satisfied and ready to sleep. On the way, though, he passed another man with a rifle strapped to his back and a scowl on his face.

Interesting.


	3. Free in Freeside

  
Free

  
“Love has its place, as does hate. Peace has its place, as does war. Mercy has its place, as do cruelty and revenge.”  
Meir Kahane

  
  
Shards of scalp stuck to his face. The ringing in his ears blocked out whatever Boone had mouthed from the sniper’s perch. Jeannie May’s body had crumpled beside him; sliding down the gravel slope they’d stood on and leaving a dark trail in it’s wake. He eyed the broken-off vertebra that glistened with slaver’s blood, concentrating on the whispers of memory that came with the sight.  
  
It’d taken him ten minutes to find Carla’s receipt, and two hours to remember what it meant. The words meant nothing to him. He knew what they said, literally. He knew who had taken the sniper’s wife, and who had sold her. But it took him two hours to remember slavery.  
  
Morality was something he slowly learned. With each step away from Goodsprings, the concept became more refined. Instincts dictated what was acceptable to reach his goals, and he was okay with that. Slavery, it seemed, was the first of the not okays he would inevitably discover. It disgusted him in a way nothing else compared to, and that feeling disturbed him.  
  
So when Jeannie May Crawford opened her door with bright eyes and drooping skin, his smile cracked wide and words dripped like honey until he snaked his arm around her waist and led the way to Dinky.  
  
***  
The two of them set off in silence thirty minutes later. ED-E’s lights were the only thing that lit the road ahead. Darkness swallowed three on a moonless night while Novac slept. He hadn’t changed his clothes and dried blood began to peel from his face while they walked. Beside him, the only thing that signified Boone’s life was the sound of his footfalls. The two hadn’t spoken a word since agreeing to travel together to Boulder City and beyond. They walked for hours, like that, until broken concrete and the 188 Trading Post broke through the darkness.  
  
The NCR Lieutenant who greeted them paled. His hair was stiff with blood and scraps of scalp, rifle stained a dark red from the raider they’d fought a few hours prior. The charisma he usually held so close was cracking under the morning rays and layers of grime. The two had been running on adrenaline for the past seven hours, cutting through geckos and raiders and scorpions and everything else in the fucking wasteland just to get to this city.  
  
“Hold on. Boulder City’s off limits to tourists right now. We’re dealing with some Great Khans who’ve been causing trouble.” The man barked, straightening, but looking like he’d been standing there for days.  
  
Boone stiffened at “Great Khan”. Becket narrowed his eyes, twitching where he stood. The dull feeling that came with his persona began to seep in. Detachment. In moments, he stood straight, pushed the crinkled hair back, and faced the trooper with subtle openness.  
  
The duffle back he’d been carrying was tossed to the ground. “What kind of trouble?”

***  
  
He didn’t kill Jessup. The Khans were shaking. Covered in dirt from days living in abandoned buildings, thin cheekbones carved from starvation. They twitched and swayed while he asked his questions. By the end, the anger that had sat low in his gut began to dissipate. These people knew nothing and something in him was too tired to press it.  
  
So when they left. The Lieutenant gave them a rosy-cheek goodbye while the Khans slipped out the side gates. Jessup gave him one last nod before disappearing over the hilltops, dragging the wounded behind.  
  
“Didn’t think you could do it.” Boone started, nudging rocks off the road while they walked. The two had put some distance between them and the city and were tracking some bighorners for food. They settled on a hilltop overlooking a valley ending in irradiated lakes and mutated animals.  
  
“I had motivation.” Becket grunted, dropping onto his stomach and bringing up the scope. He started picking off the bulls who’d strayed.  
  
Boone did the same. “You let them go.”  
  
“I did.” A shot. “He gave me what I wanted. Killing the man after that would be damn disrespectful.” Reload.  
  
“Lotta men don’t care about respect, out here.” The rest of the heard began to disperse, frightened off by the sudden deaths.  
  
Becket laughed and set down the rifle. The sun blazed overhead and began to burn the top of his nose, turning it a dark red. “I try not to limit myself to the choices of lesser individuals. New man, new slate.” They started walking towards the nearest corpse. Boone eyed him, then nodded and pulled his beret lower.  
  
“Wonder what kind you were before all this.”  
  
He hummed and knelt to start skinning. “The bad sort, I imagine. But good enough to have my standards.” A pause. He looked up. “Wonder what you were.”  
  
Small eyes narrowed in on him but lost their focus to bitter memories. He swallowed dry before muttering.  
“I had my standards.”

***  
  
The first thing you smelled in Freeside was rot. The buildings sagged with mildew that crept up the walls, covering some in a thick fuzz that almost passed as foliage. The streets were littered with empty bottles and flecks of blood that left curved paths down alleyways: People passed with squinted eyes and the labored breaths of a junkie. There was an air of tension that seeped deep into the town’s foundations and never really lifted. The people there were skittish - stuck in a limbo of residency and squatting.  
  
It took five minutes for someone to lead them into an alleyway. He couldn’t tell if Freeside thugs were confident, lucky, or stupid when they thought it was a good idea to take two fully armored men into a tourist trap. The moment he saw movement he shot, splattering raider skull onto the wall. The thug’s friend screamed, charged, and died at the tip of Boone’s combat knife.  
  
They moved through town quietly. Mick and Ralph seemed like decent people, and they traded a few items. A trip to the Mormon Fort was planned for the next day, and instead went further into town. The Kings seemed interesting. He liked the hair. The Van Graff family was what really caught his attention.  
  
The smell of melted skin filled the room. Guards bracketed the doorway, opening it up to air the smell. Gloria eyed him while he walked the perimeter and glanced over the items. Grenades, rifles, ammo. Everything a wastelander could need. People filtered in and out quickly, shaking hands and walking off with preordered packages. A few kids, even, slipped through like shadows.  
  
Boone was busy talking to a guard when a small girl bumped into him by the grenades.  
  
He moved to the side, instinctually, in case he’d been in her way, but she stood there and stared. She looked about ten, and seemed surprisingly healthy compared to those he’d seen wandering Freeside. Young with curly hair and bright blue eyes. His face was slack, staring back at her. He felt nothing. She hesitated, then reached around him to grab a EMP grenade. A runner. She moved quickly to Gloria and dropped a small bag of caps, then darted out the door. He still felt like he was being watched.  
  
Afterwards, they spent the night at the Wrangler. Decent place, and better than what they’d had since Novac. The bed creaked and the mattress was too thin, but the silence soothed him. It felt like they hadn’t stopped in days – a never ending cycle of firefights and dirt laced bedrolls. Boone still hadn’t said a word about what happened, but he expected that. He didn’t seem the type to share his life story over the light of a campfire. Time would change that and he was happy to wait.  
  
Sometimes his head ached. Vision splintered by bright lights and piercing migraines that left him writhing. Med-X didn’t help. It only made the pain stand out greater against the numbness. It left him feeling breathless and not-quite there, as if he was watching himself out of body. He pressed his fingers to the skin around his scar and felt crackling, moving just under the surface.  
  
It didn’t always happen. But it made him cautious nonetheless.  
  
When they left the next morning for the fort, he was in the middle of an episode. He woke up and thrashed, feeling like someone had driven a knife under his skin. The contents of dinner ended up in the broken sink adjacent. He was shaking for thirty minutes before it calmed down enough for him to reach the door handle. The sound of the metal turning grated through his ears like a barb.  
  
Boone was already in the hallway when he walked out. “You don’t look so good.”  
  
“Really? Because I feel fantastic.” He drawled, leaning against the chipped wallpaper. Pieces caught in his facial hair like snowflecks.  
  
“You want a doc?” Boone moved closer, eyeing him up. The movement radiated military-precision. Checking for rad poisoning or signs of dehydration, most likely.  
  
“Those Mormons –“ Another spike. The nausea was bubbling down and being replaced with a sharp pain. “Nothing says “trust me” like a stethoscope. We were going anyway, might as well go now.”  
  
No one in the Wrangler paid them any attention. It looked like a couple of NCR recruits stumbling home after a night out. Boone stood close by and watched; on the off chance he’d take a turn for the dramatic and faint. But the fresh air helped – as cliché as it sounded. Things still blurred as he walked past but the migraine had tempered.  
  
The Mormon Fort was made of sunlight. The white bricks, stained with dirt, reflected the sky like a mirror. It blinded against the dark alleys and grime Freeside soaked in. The tips of mercenary rifles peeked over the edges like spikes, but whose intimidation was dulled by the Follower’s white cross flag. The two guards standing out front looked clean and sharp-eyed, with the notable absence of chem jitters. They welcomed him and Boone in without batting an eye.  
  
The inside provided a more realistic perspective on Mojave medicine. Refugees, junkies and the wounded moved like ghost; giving small whimpers of pain and agonized yells from the privacy of the recovery tents. Doctors ran from tent to tent with armfuls of bandages and stimpaks. They looked worn – withered down to basic instincts and good intentions.  
  
One of them stopped and directed them to the far corner where a line of patients wound into the flaps of a tent. They waited at least an hour before finally moving through. Inside, two doctors and an assistant were perched on chairs and holding clipboards. The woman, middle aged and kind looking, stood in front of him while Boone watched.  
  
“Your name?” She peeked over the top of her clipboard.  
  
He tried to smile but the muscles ached, ending up a grimace instead. “Becket.”  
  
The movement didn’t go unchecked. She eyed his scar casually while asking, “Can you tell me your age and place of residence?”  
  
“Unfortunately, no.”  
  
She sat up fully, brows knitted together and glancing at the closed tent flap. “Sir, I understand the need for privacy. Everything you share with us is held in confidence. These records are just to help us keep track of your treatment, if necessary.”  
  
He tried smiling again, running a hand through his hair and shrugging. “I realize – but the fact is, I don’t know the answers to that question. An estimate is the closest I could give you.”  
  
“Have you experienced any recent trauma that could explain this amnesia?” The assistant behind her scribbled notes, glancing up to stare at him with beady eyes.  
  
“9mm – to the head.” He tapped the scar tissue and cringed. The other doctor – blonde male, attractive with dark frames – looked up. He leaned over to murmur something into the assistant’s ear, all the while keeping his gaze.  
  
From there, the questions rolled out on a red carpet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took me over a month and I promise, I am definitely still screaming at myself. I'LL BE QUICKER NEXT TIME O:


	4. Mortem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> benny bites the dust. nice

Mortem

“While seeking revenge, dig two graves - one for yourself.”

Douglas Horton

 

***

Calloused fingers prodded his skin with practiced caution, moving at a pace so slow he nearly left the tent on four separate occasions. The light, crackling sensation intensified as they moved over his scar and was followed by sharp pain. He jerked away from the doctor's hands. This was the fifth time Gannon did it.

“Mmm, I know this is necessary, but please. I'm feeling a little tender today.” Becket sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The blonde in front of him bristled in irritation, clearly unused to dealing with patients.

“You're gonna have a lot more to deal with then a sensitive deposition if you don't let me finish this exam.”

Becket bit his tongue. Nodded, then acquiesced. Boone had left long ago to restock their supplies at the Gun Runners, leaving him to finish the examination privately. But his patience was slowly thinning to a fine thread; Whatever curiosity originally prompting him to come to the Old Fort dissipated. The urge to dose on Med-X until the world became nothing but blurred colors and soft textures was overwhelming. Even his attraction to the doctor currently fondling his face had waned.

The smell of alcohol permeated the tent in a sad excuse of sanitation. No matter how much they scrubbed, the blood and grime of death would never wash away. He eyed the stains while Gannon continued.

“Tell me when it hurts.”

The callouses returned, this time one handed while the other jotted notes. Outside, the sounds of  _ Johnny Guitar _ crackled through the air; He closed his eyes and hummed along in an attempt to pass the time. Gannon scoffed but otherwise said nothing, instead focusing through his thick frames and at the scar tissue. They finished a few moments later.

“Well, it looks like whoever patched you up didn't clean things up before throwing some stitches in. Pretty unprofessional, if you ask me.” Gannon drawled, scowling.

Becket frowned. “Tell me doc, what exactly did he leave behind?”

He sighed and sat back down, eyes flickering up and down Becket's form. “Some shards of bone,  _ maybe _ dirt. I'm assuming you didn't wake up in a sterilized clinic.”

The Courier’s frown deepened.  “That is...quite the thing to miss. Should I be worried? Prepared to drop dead in a moment's notice?”

“There's a chance for infection. Talk to Julie Farkas, and she'll set you up with something. Until then, make sure you don't go walking off by yourself.”

Becket hummed, nodding. He slid off the examination table and straightened the Sheriff's Duster he'd been wearing. The cuffs were still stiff with the blood of yesterday’s fights. Gannon stood once more to show him out and the courier paused. Something tickled in the back of his mind - some instinct he couldn't quite place. It made him stop and turn back to the doctor, hand extended and smile slipped into place. 

“Many thanks for the checkup, Doctor Gannon.” 

The blonde raised a brow, surprise writ across his face at the mood shift. He took Becket's hand tentatively to shake. He noted the hesitation. “No problem. Not what I'm used to, but probably more helpful than looking at cactus’.”

Subtly, Becket turned the doctor's hand over to look at the skin there. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in an even wider smile. What medicine man had gun callouses and the figure to match? “Oh? You spend a lot of time doing that? I have to admit, not a hobby I've heard of before.”

Gannon bristled, offended. It brought a charming pinkness to his cheeks that Becket took an immediate liking to. “It’s not just staring - it's research. I specialize in finding new alternatives to Old World medicine. There's only so many hospitals we can loot before the chems run out.”

“So you're more of a science man, I gotcha.” He winked, head tilted to one side. “Fascinating. Anything ever come from it?”

“As of today, I'm still waiting.” Hints of bitterness threaded into the doc's voice. A sore subject, no doubt. But admirable nonetheless - to try and make something of nothing. Perhaps one day the Mojave would give some of the life it'd taken.

“Well, if you ever need anything to help things along, consider it my pleasure. I'll be in town for quite awhile.” 

In that moment, the good doctor became excruciatingly aware of the contact between them - the lingering grip on his hand, the elbow brushing against his labcoat, the smell of rust and rubbing alcohol lingering on Becket's skin. He cleared his throat pointedly.  “I'll try not to make a habit of it, but thanks. I appreciate the sentiment.” 

***

The Strip seeped into him; a fine camouflage of vice and sin where no one showed their true cards. They hid behind so many masks some had forgotten what really lay beneath, instead becoming the personas they'd so carefully crafted. He let it wash over him; embracing a way of life he'd already perfected in the weeks prior. It was a den of snakes. But he was one of them. 

Boone walked behind him, red casino lights flickering across strong features. Victor was… Something unpredictable. A variable that prickled the skin of his neck. Securitrons made him nervous. A deep sense of caution that no cowboy accent could conceal. The Lucky 38 stood - another imposing titan of the Strip. House. The name left a foul taste in his mouth for reasons he couldn't quite place.

“Benny?” 

Boone's voice was even. The two of them stopped at the base of Gomorrah, looking across at the Lucky 38. 

“At the Tops, over… Over there.” Becket's own voice was distant, now staring at the Chairmen's glowing advertisements. A beacon taunting him. His fingers latched onto That Gun with white knuckles. The warm air did nothing to cool the blood rushing into his temples - a malicious curiosity overwhelmed his senses. His very own High Roller, sitting cozy in lavish pre-war rooms and sipping on iced tonics. How easily could he slip in? How long, at the end of a blade, would it take Benny to sing like a canary? 

The sniper set his rifle down and followed his gaze. “How're you gonna do it?”

He hummed, brushing his hair back and scratching the facial hair that'd taken root. He needed a trim. His fingers spasmed and he dropped the pistol onto the bench. “Fuck. Hmm. I suppose I'll just walk in and see what the man is up to.”

“You'll get yourself killed. Security's tight on the Strip, and we'll have no weapons. No gun.” Boone looked pointedly at the pistol between them.

“Don't need a gun to make a man talk.” Becket scowled and kept massaging the palm of his hand. A loud sigh. “We’ll have silenced gear. Can you work with that, if it comes to it?”

Boone grunted. “We seeing House first?”

A laugh, barely concealing disgust. “He'll wait.”

***

Swank eyed them like a man who'd seen one too many weeds in his garden. He watched the two newest customers get pat down one by one and hand over their gear. Boone's face was like staring into a brick wall - the Chairman didn't think there was much going on behind the mortar. But Becket. The man didn't look like a gambler. Didn't know what he  _ did _ look like either. All smiles and sophistication. Worthy of the Tops, one way or the other.

The two slinked through the crowds and made their way to the upper floors. They'd left most of their gear in the Wrangler and instead opted for simple, loose clothes to conceal whatever heat they packed. Boone stood in his fatigues and sipped watered down whiskey, watching Becket like the man had a target on his back. Which was accurate, all things considered. The man himself looked relaxed. He could feel the blade of his combat knife scuffing the skin of his thigh and the pinch of the 9mm in his waistband. The bourbon he downed felt like fire searing down his throat. It settled in his gut and left a sense of calm - a numbness that slanted well against the pain under his scalp. 

The High Roller hadn't shown up yet, but his name was whispered in reverence among the crowds. 

“Benny's back, didya hear? Nice to have the bossman back in town!”

“I heard those Khans he was with turned up dead, can you believe it? Buncha squares, if you ask me. Nothin’ but raiders.”

“Looks like Swank can finally relax. Now that Benny's back, things can get back on Top.”

An hour passed like that. Eventually, he cut himself off from the bar and moved to the back of the room, taking his half-drunk glass with him. Boone stayed by the railings to keep an eye out. A couple of patrons sloshed into him clumsily and apologized in slurred words, deciding he was their new source of intrigue. The man and woman sagged into each other, recounting their journey to the Strip with wild gestures and exaggerations that made him smile weakly. The itch of violence was a distraction souring whatever joy manifested. From the corner of his eye he spotted Boone making his way through the crowds. 

“Excuse me folks, I'll be right back.” He smiled politely and moved to meet his companion. Boone nodded towards an alcove by the elevators and the two moved there. 

Becket's voice was flat. “Where is he?”

“Downstairs, by the elevators. He's got guards.”

“Wonderful. Always liked an audience.” He tipped back the rest of his drink and tossed the glass into an adjacent trashcan. The sound of its shatter was drowned by blaring music. The metal scrape against his skin was a focus point contrasting against the worn leather of his duster. He breathed in through his nose and walked down the main flight of stairs briskly, boots clicking against the polished floors. He twisted and rubbed his hands together; Walking down the center of the casino floor, his eyes locked on the checkered suit in front of him. 

He didn't know what he expected to find in Benny. Memory was a difficult thing to avenge, and no matter how deeply he carved his frustrations into the man's skin, Becket would never know who he once was. Not really. The separation had already cleaved its way between past and present.

What he wanted was answers. Control. It was a blind spot in his mind that taunted with ghostly images and barely-there touches. Voices that spoke to him with no face to match. He was tired of it. Irritated that he would never know the answers to his questions, never know the stories behind his marked body. There were many things Becket found he could tolerate - but ignorance was not one of them. Not ever.

The moment Benny looked up was the one when he felt his mind still. The world melted away in just a few seconds, leaving nothing but him and the High Roller. Fear, awe, panic. It rippled through Benny's eyes like a crack of lightening. His whole body tensed and his hand went to the engraved pistol at his side with a slight tremor. His bodyguards closed in instinctually, eyeing Becket as if he had a Fat Man’s nuke strapped to his chest and the detonator in hand. 

“What in the goddamn…?” He breathed. Reality clicked in the man's eyes and his expression closed off harshly, instead replaced by faux causality. “Whoa there, let's keep it smooth here tiger!”

Becket's pace slowed as he approached, moving up the platform gracefully until he was face-to-face with Benny. They stood in tense silence, taking in one another. He openly analyzed the Chairmen; eyes flickering up and down his form and cataloging every detail to memory. The smell of cigarettes and cologne, freshly washed hair. Shiney watch. The pistol on Benny's hip glinted in the lowlights. Becket smiled, then tapped the sunburst scar above his temple. 

“That the one you used? Quite a mean piece.”

Benny shrugged. “I like to keep things jazzy, you dig? She's reliable.” He fidgeted. “So, uh, you mind tellin’ me how in the hell you're here right now? Cause last thing I remember, you were catchin’ zees back in the Goodsprings. Dead.”

“I got better.” Becket replied, waving his hand flippantly. His steely eyes locked onto Benny's. “We need to talk about that.”

“Sure thing, sure thing.” The man stepped forward, relaxing somewhat. He was following his instincts - hoping there was some angle to manipulate. “Tell you what. You and me, one on one, my penthouse. You look like the kind of man who wants answers.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a key, handing it to him and nodding towards the elevators beside them. “I'll meet you up there, ‘Kay tiger? You make yourself right at home while I finish up down here.”

Becket took the keys, silent. His eyes narrowed and he whistled low. “Benny...” The name came out in a snarl that juxtaposed against his calm features. It caught the Chairman's attention, who once again tensed. “Please, don't insult me. We both know you've already planned at least... Three? Three exits. I counted. Get in the elevator.”

This seemed to be the last scratch, finally breaking the facade Benny had cultivated. His features dropped into a condescending scowl. “Is that a threat, big boy? Cause you see these guys? Bodyguards. And I guarantee they're packing more heat than whatever toy you managed to smuggle in.”

Becket scoffed. “You think I won't cause a scene, ‘ _ Benman _ ’? You think business will boom if you shoot a paying customer down in your own damn lobby?” He rolled his eyes and peeled back the duster, exposing his off-white t shirt. “Be my guest.”

Benny groaned, shaking his head. “Why you gotta be like that? Okay, fine, have it your way. Whatever it takes to earn your trust. Let's go.”

***

The Penthouse was quiet when they arrived. Becket stepped out first, a confident stride that led him to the bar across the room. He poured himself a drink set his own 9mm on the table. Benny raised a brow and laughed.

“That's the peashooter you brought? What a bluff.”

“Stealths’ never been my forte. As far as I know.” Becket chuckled into the rim of his whiskey. The High Roller pulled out a seat two down and climbed into it, back against the peeling wallpaper. He poured his own drink.

“Before we start, I gotta ask. Why track me down for this little mano-e-mano? You could've hitched a caravan and peeled out the moment you opened those eyes.” Benny stared at him as if all the answers he wanted were etched into Becket's face. 

Becket raised his glass. “That sounds like a mighty fine plan. But first things first. I wanted to know  _ why _ you did it, of course. I know the Mojave's a savage place, but not everyone gets shot in the head for it.”

The Chairmen slipped into his pocket and pulled out a coin. A chip. Platinum, by the looks of it. “Well, my friend, this is it. This chip is the key to everything a little wastelander’s heart could ever want. And you,” he wagged his fingers. “Had it.”

“Did I?” The courier questioned absently. He was focused on the edge of Benny's suit collar. The conversation prattled on awhile longer and his attention returned only when details about Goodsprings surfaced. Slowly, he was filled in. House. The Chip. Deliveries. Benny had relaxed into a state of superiority - knowing and loving the fact that he was dealing these cards. He pawed his slicked back hair and downed another drink. Becket passively watched, his own long empty. Their guns lay on the countertop as a sign of goodwill. An hour had gone by. The single bodyguard that followed them in sat in the corner, immersed in a Gunner's magazine.

“So, what do ya say? Partners? I'll keep the chip, of course, but you'll still get your fair share. Chairman's oath.” Benny grinned at him, standing. His knees popped and Becket followed suit. 

“Of course.”

“Ayyy, now that's The Tops! Feel free to stay here for the night. We got big plans tomorrow.” 

“I'll make myself right at home.” A slow smile spread. Benny shook his hand, humming, and grabbed his pistol from the bartop. He turned. Becket moved to the radio and fiddled with the dials absently. “Hey, Benman, how do you turn this thing up?”

“Should be, uh, the left one.” He answered, attention focused on punching in the elevator codes. Becket did so, humming along with the now blaring music. 

He twisted, dancing smoothly over to the bar and picking up his own pistol. With two fingers he lifted and did a trick - then turned abruptly and splattered the bodyguard's head across the wall in one muted  _ thunk.  _ Benny continued punching in the gate numbers, unaware of Becket's racket. The courier poured himself another drink and unlatched the combat knife from his thigh, moving to Benny silently. He hummed and set his drink down on the floor.

“Benny?”

“What is it, partner?” He turned, eyes dilating in seconds. Becket fired twice, one in the shoulder and one in the kneecap. The man screamed, dropping to his good knee and scrambling for the gun at his waist. Becket lunged, kicking it away and using the knife to pin Benny's elbow into the carpet. “Fuck you!” He screeched.

“Watch yourself there, Benman. I bet you I can find another knife around here, if I really tried.” He sighed, crouching over him. He pressed the tip of his shoe into the bullet hole. “Personally, I'd love nothing more than to put a few bullets in your brain. But I doubt that would satisfy my  _ needs _ , you dig, Benman?”

Benny thrashed, trying to pull himself away from the point of contact. “We had a deal!” 

“Did we really?  _ Really? _ ” Becket tsked. “Are you tellin’ me, in all honesty, that you weren't going to kill me in my sleep the moment I closed these bea-u-tiful eyes? Now, Benny. I said it before.” He leaned in, breath tickling the man's nose. “I'm not stupid.”

He wrenched the knife from the floor with a wet crack, sliding clean through Benny's arm again. The man yowled, immediately bringing the bleeding appendage to his chest. 

Becket sighed. “You took some things from me, and now I'm gonna take some from you.”

***

By the time Boone found him again, the sun had long since faded. The Sniper followed the sounds of gunshots, unsilenced, echoing down from the Top's presidential suit. When he opened the door, it was to a splattering of viscera and the strong perfume of blood and gunpowder. 

Benny, or his body, was nowhere to be seen. Clumped awkwardly by the door were the corpses of several bodyguards he'd seen earlier. Boone stepped around them and into the room, eyeing the broken radio sparking on the countertop. 

“Becket?” He called, picking up one of the pistols strewn across the floor. The hallway at the end of the suit was dotted in dripping red handprints. There was a pause, then a loud sigh. 

“Boone?” 

He followed the voice down the hallway and saw the bathroom door half-open, light spilling out. Cautiously, Boone stepped inside. 

Becket clutched the porcelain sink with shaking hands. His duster was in the tub soaking in dark waters, shoes kicked in the corner. His white shirt had twin bullet holes in the abdomen where red flared out violently, his stomach convulsed from a mix of drugs and adrenaline. The shakes, combined with shock from the bullet wounds, left his head in a soft fog. An empty vial of Psycho sat on the sink's rim. 

“God _ damn _ . Glad you're here. I'm coming down from this pretty quick.” Becket wheezed. He pushed himself off the sink and Boone had to lunge to catch him. Becket groaned. “Oh. Oh that  _ is _ bad. Terribly dizzy. Not good.”

“Time to go.”

***

The Followers were used to treating injuries of questionable nature. Usually, the victim and suspect came in at the same time, beaten and bloody and looking for stitches. When Becket and Boone shuffled through the front door they barely raised a brow. 

The same doctor who'd treated him the week prior sprinted across the yard, hair whipping behind her. She, and several others, braced him and moved into the operating tent. In the haze he recognized the blonde man who'd given him the examination.

“Oh. It's you again.” He slurred, giving a weak wave as he reclined. Gannon sighed and cut the shirt, shining a flashlight on his wounds for the nurses. His skin, littered in white scars, was crisscrossed in purple bruises and blood flecks.

“I didn't expect to see you here so… Immediately. Not your best look. But I’m sure you realize.” 

“I look good in anything.” Becket croaked, a feeble attempt at laughing causing him to cough.

The female doctor took his arm gingerly, prodding along for veins. “Don't move. We're putting you under, okay sir?” 

He hummed  _ Johnny Guitar _ until darkness took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay!! So. next time I'm definitely focusing on him and Arcade, finally getting out there together now that this mess is done with, and also adding more of Becket's backstory. Thank you all so much for reading!!! I love to hear your thoughts, so don't be shy c: (also, I made an 8tracks playlist for Becket you can find here: http://8tracks.com/shakana/that-smile-ll-kill-you )


	5. Clean Carved

Clean Carved 

“If we open a quarrel between past and present, we shall find that we have lost the future.”

Winston Churchill

***

  
There was simplistic comfort in the life of a raider. The surrounding world was narrowed down into instinctual tunnel vision; the only things that mattered were survival and pleasure. To live was to feel good, and to feel good was to raid. It wasn’t an easy life – not at all – but one perfectly suited for the occasional fiendish psychopath. It perplexed him. There was a certain appeal in knowing what came each day, in lowered inhibitions, in absolute freedom. But it also bored him on a fundamental level. Too easy. Too safe. Killing them was equally distasteful, but ultimately unavoidable.

Arcade’s lab coat, however slimming, was a glowing beacon to every eye and scope within a 500-mile radius. Against red sands and dark rock, the two were hard to miss. They were walking the thin strip of land between the Camp McCarran and Vault 3 - trying, unsuccessfully, to locate Westside. The trip was meant to act as a test drive for future excursions.

Convincing Arcade to join him was surprisingly difficult, all things considered. The morning after his operation started with aches old and new. His head thrummed with the chems they’d given him and he twisted off the bunk with a groan. Boone had laid his clothes and weapons on the side table along with a note saying he’d gone to the Wrangler to pay off their room. The tent flap was sealed shut, less likely for privacy and more for sanitation, so he took the time to groom himself back into place. The blood stained cloth – a regular occurrence – was stiff as he shrugged it on. The hair on the back of his neck felt sticky and he cringed when his fingertips came away with mixed flakes of soap and blood. They’d _tried_ to clean him up. He could appreciate the effort.

The taste in the back of his throat was a distraction. He popped some Mentats and leafed through the contents of his bag absently.

Benny was gone, but something still crawled under his skin.

There was nothing but fuzzed out traces slipping through his fingertips; a sense of emptiness that was beginning to define his soul. His Highroller hadn’t known one damn thing about him. Nothing, not even where he’d come from before entering the Mojave Express. It had never occurred to him just how _naïve_ the man would be – he’d always assumed the mark would be some well-groomed checklist-making Vegas man, not just some opportunistic smooth-talker in checkered clothes. Once again, he was left empty handed.

He slipped outside the tent and peeked around the fort with slitted eyes. It looked like he’d slept through most of the morning; the Pipboy had the time stamped at 12:45. The Fort looked unusually vacant, with only a handful of doctors and nurses scattered through the yard. Across the way and by the main gates he spotted Boone and his own blonde doctor speaking – and the sight made him grin. The two looked particularly uncomfortable and tensed, as if every detail was being dragged out kicking and screaming. Their voices echoed across the yard and he watched as several of the Followers tried, unsuccessfully, to subtly listen in.

“What do you mean _, ‘you don’t know’_? We can’t treat him if we have to play Medication Roulette!”

“That’s his business. Not mine to tell.”

“Ah yes, the infallible mentality of soldiers. Loyalty and brotherhood. Great stuff, until you get someone killed because of it.”

“s’That a threat? You gonna let him die, doc?”

“ _No,_ I am not, I-“

Becket glided over to them with silent feet and a cocky disposition - hair slicked back, perfect teeth flashing. His gait was relaxed and overpowered the violent details spread across his accessories. “Roulette’s almost always favored me. With the one exception, of course. But it looks like you’ve more than taken care of me, doctor…?” He extended the hand he’d cleaned in the tent.

The doctor narrowed his eyes, suspicious, and then took his hand. Becket’s olive skin, which had tanned considerably during his travels, contrasted sharply against the pale alabaster currently tucked in his palm. He squeezed, appreciating, and gave the man a once over as they released. As tall as himself, although with a leaner build and less pronounced shoulders. He had a clean-shaven, sculpted jaw and carefully arched brows. Blue eyes, platinum blonde hair; He cut a fine figure with a sense of Pre-War regality. A figure whose eyes swept over Becket as well – subtly, quickly. But not clinically.

“Gannon. Arcade.” The man answered, irritation still lacing his tone. “I see you’re up and well. Wonderful. Can you call off your friend here before he scares away every skittish Freesider in the area?”

He looked at Boone, who simply shook his head in an unimpressed manner before sighing. “You want me to stick around or go to the Wrangler?”

Becket shook his head and took one of the bags the sniper had been holding. “We’re leaving soon, so if you want a drink now’s the time to get it. I’ll meet you there.” He paused, then squeezed Boone’s shoulder in a moment of sincerity. “Thanks for keeping a look out.”

He got a grunt that somewhat resembled a garbled “You’re welcome” before the man left through the main gates. He turned back to Arcade. “I apologize for taking up your time like this – it was quite the unexpected incident. How can I make it up to you and the Followers?”

Arcade eyed him wearily, matched with an expression that said, “ _I don’t believe you_ ” in big bolded letters. He leaned against the pitiful stacked sand bags that served as the gate’s defense. “This is a free clinic.”

“That word doesn’t mean we’re on equal ground, doc.” He huffed, shifting to stand bowlegged. There was an ache in the back of his neck that felt like someone had pinched his scalp; he began to picture the scratchy, comforting embrace of his sleeping roll. “I don’t like leaving bad impressions.”

“A bad impression? Oh, I don’t know… I thought the whole ‘bloody, high and laughing’ act was a pretty routine occurrence.” With barely concealed judgment, the doctor shrugged. His fingers trailed lazily over the inseam of the lab coat’s cuffs. A moment later, his eyes flickered back up. “In all honesty, it wasn’t a problem. I’m just glad to finally be useful around here.” And there it was again – that small, flickering bitterness that could so easily be twisted into something useful.

 ***

The name carved into his skin glimmered silver in the wrangler’s low light. The lines, razor –thin in precision, stared back at him through the silence. His long fingers curled loosely around the scalpel; the smell of rubbing alcohol stung his eyes.

NEL.

Sat on the grime-covered tiles, he let the world around him fade away and coveted the moment of privacy. He traced the lettering one last time. 

***

The sand bit through the fabric of his pants unforgivingly. For once, he began to regret the fashionably light armor.

Arcade was knelt beside him as the two watched their bags being emptied a few feet ahead. Delicate items and used materials were tossed haphazardly into the fire while guns, armor, bullets and chems were carefully set aside into neat, filed piles. The Fiends who’d cornered them were unusually organized; barely shaking from withdrawal, eyes clear and voices clipped. There were five of them total – two sorting through the loot, two guarding himself and the doctor, and one doing perimeter walks around the camp. The back of his neck burned from the still-hot shotgun barrel pressing into his skin.

They were so close. In the distance, the lights of Westside gleamed like antagonistic fireflies. The two of them were only a thirty minute walk from the gates when they’d ducked into an abandoned building for supplies, then promptly finding a group of raiders perched around a cooking pot in the man lobby. There’d been at least nine of them then – Becket fired off two shots quickly and had taken cover, but the building was dark and he’d tripped over one of the bodies within ten minutes. Arcade took out two more before helping him up, but by then they’d been flanked and it was too late.

The two in front of them talked in hushed whispers. The animal skulls they wore looked demonic in the firelight and fascinated him on a baser level. They hadn’t been spoken to since being captured aside from hisses and brief orders to stand, move, kneel. He was puzzled as to why they were being kept alive until he remembered Arcade. Doctors were an invaluable asset in the wasteland; they knew their way around more than a handful of pharmaceuticals and could patch you up if anything went wrong with them The blonde was giving him another narrow eyed scowl and mouthing the words “ _what now_?” He shrugged, but was jabbed again with the gun barrel.

“Quit moving!”

The sudden outburst got the other’s attention and they turned back. The taller one, who carried a modified hunting rifle with crudely drawn clouds etched into the side, pivoted completely. His lean frame was wrecked with ugly scars and deeply purpled bruise patches. Thin tattoos trickled down his quivering arms. “What’re they doin’?”

The one behind him huffed exasperatingly. “Squirming. You two done dicking around? I don’t like it out here.”

Arcade’s guard, a stocky woman with purple hair, gave a shrill laugh that made both of them cringe. The black remnants of her teeth were unbelievably distracting. “Are you _scared_? You’re a fucking _Fiend_ , Hec. What the fuck are you doin’ here if you’re gonna act like a little bitch?”

“What did you just sa-“

The fifth snarled from the corner of the camp. “Shut it! NCR’s doing patrols. Stop fuckin’ screaming and finish up already. The boss’ll be back soon.”

Becket twisted his wrist carefully, testing the strength of the fraying rope they’d used to tie him. He felt the strands snap quietly. With time, he had no doubt he could wear it down enough to slip out, but time was something they were supremely deficient in. He could sense the panic rising in Arcade as the man began to fidget more often, fingers twitching with adrenaline in front of him.

He felt calm. His heartbeat was steady and almost seemed lazy in it’s effort to pump the blood through his veins; there was no sense of impending doom in Becket’s mind. It wasn’t apathy to living – he did enjoy life and its mysteries – so much as a sense of freedom. He had no attachments, no responsibilities aside from the ones he’d specifically chosen. He was the man with no past and he knew life was not done with him yet. It was an arrogant train of thought that made him question his own sense of vanity – but Becket knew, no matter where he’d come from, he’d always been a narcissistic man. There was no point in fighting natural instinct if the effort was futile.

If he were to have regrets, though, it would have been not getting to know Arcade a little more. The man was nothing less than an enigma, cocooned in lies and hidden under a witty personality. It had been a couple of weeks moving back and fourth between Freeside and it’s surrounding settlements. The change between the doctor and Boone had been jarring, to say the least, but a definitely pleasant chance of pace. During the short time they’d traveled together he’d become very endeared to the other man’s sense of humor. Attracted, too. That was another thing. He wished he could have gotten to know _several_ more people, including Arcade, in a biblical sense. Maybe all at once. He believed in grand endings above all else, after all.

The buzz of far-off cazadores mixed in with the crackling fire and drew his attention. Down the road at the mountain’s slope, a small group fluttered. The tall one waved Arcade’s plasma defender in the air and he watched as the other Fiends cringed away. “This thing’s outta bullets.”

Bingo.

“Don’t point it towards us you moron!” The woman snarled, curling away from the group and leaving Arcade with some breathing room. He locked eyes with the doctor and winked before clearing his throat a little too loudly.

He felt some relief from the barrel at his neck, questioning, before speaking quietly. “It’s still loaded. There’s chambers on the side – just lift up the hatch.” Twelve beady eyes narrowed in like lasers. He watched as the raider looked between him and the gun, brows furrowed in a considering expression. Whatever dust-covered cogs were there began to turn.

Slowly, “What hatch?”

It never occurred to him just how vague the words “Right there” were until that exact moment. The exchange, a quickly deteriorating game of hold/cold, ending with him being jerked up from the sands and shoved to the center of the circle. The smell of charcoaled Brahmin meat overwhelmed him immediately; rotting mildew crawled over the greying meat lying in the center of the fire pit. Flies swarmed, a festering buzz, and disgust flashed through him. The Fiends weren’t bothered in the slightest by the sight.

The barrel returned to his neck and he felt a dull knife cut through his bindings. Aching, his shoulder gave an audible _pop_ when he rolled it. The plasma defender was thrust into his hands with paranoid trust. The leader of the group rumbled, almost a growl. “Unload it.” His fingers moved nimbly and he spoke slowly, explaining each movement to them. They watched intently and he could see them memorizing the different plates and cartridges.

“It’s empty?” One of them asked. One with devil horned shaped hair that’d been walking the perimeter a few minutes prior. He nodded. In the corner of his eye, a cazadore was scuttling.

The gun was warm in his hand, but now significantly lighter. He tapped the base with one finger and nodded towards it. “I can show you…?” The tall one grunted and shrugged, now relaxed and loose. Becket shuffled between the close circle they’d formed and stood to the side – he held the defender and, tucking it in close, fired off the last shot. The recoil knocked his shoulder back violently and he stumbled.

He made it a point to never underestimate raiders, no matter how many drugs laced through their blood. That caution paid off for times like this when said raiders were gifted with impeccable reaction timing. As soon as the shot fired and he moved back, two sets of hands were gripping him like cobra fangs and wrenching the gun from his hands. One of his fingers was still in the trigger when they did and dislocated. He swore, flipping onto his back and dragging one of them over him in the process. A shadow passed overhead as the cazadores, now alerted, began to hunt. Buzzing echoed through his head and a chorus of profanity joined. The Fiends screamed, diving for their weapons and knifes to try and fend off the insects. Flashes of white signified Arcade slipping free, followed by two shots from the pistol he’d scooped from the ground.

The bandit he’d pulled on top of him screamed, voice warbling like a hawk in his eardrum. They rolled, propelled by scratching hands and fear of incoming stingers, until Becket moved away enough to kick the other man in the abdomen. The raider gasped wetly and heaved before one of the smaller cazadores landed at his feet. Becket didn’t watch.

The threadbare rucksack he carried supplies in had been kicked to the side in the scuffle and he darted towards it, slipping it over his chest frantically and flinching as Arcade scrambled beside him with wide eyes.

“Go go go go.” He waved his hand, which was now turning a vibrant shade of purple, in the direction of Westside. Screams and gunshots rang out behind them as the nearby NCR troops responded to the commotion, shooting out from the other side of the bridge. The two ran, multitasking between navigation and loading the bullets back into their guns just in case they ran into more Fiends. Becket dropped several shells before snarling and shoving the empty gun into its holster, switching to the knife instead. They dove into the nearby underpass, tripping down the decline, and continued to weave through debris.

Gunshots cracked to life overhead, firing off in the direction they’d just come from in quick secessions. The telltale swearing and smell of Fiend’s was like a calling card. Blood thrummed in his ears like gushing river water, the muscles in his legs burning red hot. But the air felt crisp in his lungs and the world hyperdefined around him; Exhilaration and adrenaline gave him the energy to keep running out from under the bridge with Arcade at his heels. His companion was surprisingly fit.

Shocked cries erupted behind them as they were spotted and a bullet whizzed past his face when he turned to look back. A small group stood leaning over the railing to look through scopes. Between them all was a woman, dark hair bobbed to blood-smudged cheeks. She stared at them, still yelling at the others, through the scoped end of a hunting rifle. He squinted to try and make the face out, but only saw the animal skull she wore strapped to her hip – a marker for higher ranked gang members. He looked back and jumped over a rusted fender.

A scream, hoarse and blood curdling, resonated through the gully. “Becket!”

He tripped on a door, toes catching on the raised metal. Arcade froze and darted back to grab him by the shirt collar, something that only partially registered in his mind. He ducked as another bullet ricocheted off the car next to them – another scream - he looked up and saw the woman shoving the gun away from the offending raider. Nothing more than shadows in the distance. The voice wailed out again (how unnerving, it was, to hear his own name called with such familiarity) and he saw her bringing the scope up again to look at him.

For reasons he couldn’t understand, Becket covered his face and ran.

 ***

Westside calmed him. Surrounded by a completely different simplicity then that of a raider’s life, by rubber walls and wheat stalks, Becket found comfort. He and the doctor had slipped through town soundlessly, in the early hours of the morning covered in dust, gunpowder and the unmistakable goo of dead cazadore. They spent the day combing through the town for jobs and resupplying whatever the Fiends had taken the night prior. In the lulls between, when they stood against brick and sipped Nuka, Arcade never asked why he ran. Never asked when he tipped back a few more sips of whiskey than usual.

Becket appreciated that.

The sun sagged low in the sky and set the world aflame in orange streaks; the frail tips of wheat stalks looked like candles in front of them. The two men reclined just outside of town, sat peacefully in plastic chairs allotted by one of the weathered farmers. The contents of their bags had been reorganized and carefully placed back in the rucksack. Every task in town had been jotted down in Becket’s logbook, followed by names, numbers, and times. They would leave the next day to return to the Lucky 38 and take care of any business in New Vegas.

The silence between them was edged narrowly between comfortable and oppressing – something that, on any other occasion, would have offended him deeply. But the words stuck in his throat awkwardly. Vulnerability left him uneased and twitchy. When Arcade spoke, it caught him off guard.

“Look, I know it’s not my place to get involved,” he sighed and picked at a nail. “I – well, I don’t know what happened back there or why you’re so famous among the local raider population, but it’s obvious you don’t have a clue either.” Becket arched a brow, but said nothing. The action seemed to calm the doctor somewhat and he let go of the tension in his hands. “What I’m trying to say is… We all have a past, and so long as you’re helping people in the present, I’ll stick with you. I could use the exercise.”

With the sun dipping behind the mountaintops and the crickets chirping, Becket lifted his glass clanked with the doc’s. “That’s a promise I can keep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!! The holidays were a rough time, but now inspiration decided to show up and I feel really motivated again. This part is primarily backstory and plot development to get the ball rolling, and next time we'll finally see more Legion related material! Thank you all so much for the comments -- every time I get one it makes me want to jump right back in. You guys are the bomb <3
> 
> Also, when writing this on my computer, the wordcount is at +19,000, but Archive has it at a couple thousand lower? Is this a common problem or is something missing? If you know, please comment!!


	6. Hawker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its here c:

Hawker

“You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be.” – Chuck Palahnluk

Evil was a concept quickly learned in the wasteland. It was something everyone acknowledged but never faced, just another factor that came with living in the Mojave. Some things had to be given up in order to live the good life. You had to accept the fact that sometimes you’d wake up and your babies would be gone, your cattle slaughtered and house burned. There was always something in the corner of your eye, looming, like a ghost. Something no amount of good could ever hope to conceal. 

A Legion's crucifixion.

Vulpes’ hands were soft and uncalloused from work. He may have given the order, but his hands never touched the axe that sent heads rolling. Laziness? Weakness? Detachment from the act left his mind clear from the hazy fog of adrenaline that so often left recruits foaming at the mouth. He could think on his feet - quick, calculating, probing - and make decisions in the blink of an eye. Becket envied him for that. No matter what confidence danced through his own mind, on the precipice of some great decision, there was always a moment. A flicker. A doubt that gnawed away precious seconds. Vulpes learned to quash those moments at a young age.

Becket was standing outside Mick and Ralph's when the black suit first slithered into his vision. Arcade was inside bartering off the junk they'd accumulated in Westside while he smoked, the nicotine burning through his lungs and leaving a pleasant sting. He didn’t smoke often, only when he came across a particularly well-preserved pack. He admitted, grudgingly, that the comfort was a combination of both mild addiction and aesthetic appeal. Standing in his King’s jacket, face illuminated by the tip’s embers, he cut an intimidating figure. One that made his own vanity very, very happy.  

The kids talked to him here and there, voices high pitched and chittering, before darting off after a rat. Their sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks stayed with him. 

***

Vulpes chose that moment to approach.

The frumentarii looked ridiculous, frankly, in civilian clothes, but it was obvious he was well accustomed to wearing them; Vulpes moved as if he’d been gambling on the strip since childhood. But no matter what air of familiarity the Legionnaire created, Becket couldn’t unsee the animal mantle that burned red in Nipton’s shadow. No fine pressed cloth could ever hope to completely conceal the savagery bubbling underneath.

“You’re a difficult man to locate, Courier.” The man’s nasally voice was grating. He stood a healthy distance from Becket and leaned against the wall, slitted eyes watching the same group of children run.

Becket took one last drag before snuffing the cigarette out on the bricks. “If it were easy who knows who’d start showin’ up.”

“You’ve made a number of enemies since your arrival in the Mojave.” Vulpes noted, eyes shifting sideways. The gaze was uncomfortably penetrating. “The Legion is, most notably, absent among them.”

“True,” The courier pushed off the wall to pivot, now facing the man whose body stiffened fractionally. “I don’t plan to expand the list any further than need be. But don’t think that means I’m itching to cross the river.”

“How naive, to think you have the choice.” Vulpes mused. A faint smile shifted his countenance into something resembling amusement. The sound of rustling fabric drew Becket’s attention to the other man’s coat, which now parted as his hand withdrew. Something was curled between his feminine fingertips - a small gold coin imprinted with a bull’s visage. Vulpes pressed it into Becket’s palm gently and the courier drew back quickly, as if burned by the other’s softness. The Legionnaire gave a quiet huff; A wisp of mocking laughter. The courtyard around them was silent now, the kids moving on to new playgrounds. Only the sound of wind sliding through concrete remained.

“What is this?” Becket eyed the trinket critically, flipping the small medallion over and inspecting it from all angles.

The other replied swiftly with a kind of nonchalance that sounded rehearsed. As if explaining the concept to an inept tourist, which Becket supposed he was, afterall. “The Mark of Caesar gives you safe passage through our lands. You’ll need it to get to our camp on Fortification Hill.”

He bristled, irritated by the not so subtle suggestion. “Wonderful. Don’t expect to use it, but the thought is appreciated.”

Vulpes moved away from the wall with a fixed look. Sarcasm unappreciated. Noted. “The Legion has something you desire, just as you have possess something we do.” A hand, surprisingly delicate, rose to rest on Becket’s collarbone. He eyed the appendage with suspicion but listened. “Bring the chip. We’ll look for you.”

Becket huffed, scowling, but the hand plucked itself back from his chest with grace. Vulpes stared with eyes trained to feline slits, then slid past him and out Freeside’s gate. The smell of cotton and yucca trailed after him like a ghost and Becket rubbed the spot where his hand had been, massaging away the smell absently. Behind him laughter rang out as the kids returned to the courtyard. Life resumed around him as if the devil himself hadn't just dropped by for an afternoon chat.

Arcade came out thirty minutes later holding a mostly-empty rucksack and three bottles of water. As he walked, the sound of caps clinking drew the attention of a few passersby. The doctor’s weary expression told Becket everything he needed to know about the deals brokered. When the blonde reached him he clapped the other man on the back and squeezed, sighing.

“A frown’s a terrible thing to leave negotiations with, Doc. Doesn’t suit you.”

“I’ve been arguing for two hours, I don’t think my mouth is capable of much more at the moment.”

_ Oh, but it could be. _

Arcade brought a hand to his jaw and moved it side to side, fingers pressing into the delicate skin underneath. He glanced at the rucksack and shook it. “But it seems, despite those solitary years dedicated to desert fauna, my talents have yet to rust. That’s 200 more caps than we were expecting.”

Becket’s smile was radiant. “Arcade! That face could charm a deathclaw from her babies.”

The doctor laughed - a nervous, embarrassed-sounding thing he quickly covered under a cough. “Only if she had an inclination for Latin poetry. But let’s save that theory for another day. I still have my hopes and dreams like the rest of you, and I’d rather spend these caps before dying.”

“That poetry of yours is the only thing I dream of, Arcade. All this talk and I’ve yet to be wooed by a single dead tongue.” Becket tsked, fluttering his lashes.

“I doubt translating every sentence would add much to the romantic atmosphere.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could find a way.”

***

Over time, Becket learned there were three different ways a person could knock at the door. The first was the safest, of course, and most common. It was that little  _ thunk thunk  _ people did with the flats of their fingers – just a little something to get attention. A friend stopping by to drop something off or say hello, nothing too serious. The second was the kind you hear after you ‘accidentally’ sleep with a man’s wife, or a wife’s husband, and after you miss one-too-many rent payments to the landlord. Two quick  _ bang bangs _ that leave your door rattlin’ on its hinges.  

The third was the kind he was hearing now, at 2am, in his bedroom at the Atomic Wrangler. A quick precession of taps that matched a shaking hand and jigging door handle. Fear. Anxiety. Through the wood he could hear each of the Garrett twins muttering to themselves, Francine searching for the keys while her brother tried his best to knock it down with his fist.

By then he was already springing up from the bed and tugging on some wadded up pants he’d left in the corner a couple hours prior. As soon as fatigues closed he opened the door, scowling, at the two owners.

James lurched back from the door and sputtered, surprised. Before either man could speak Francine’s shrill voice cut through the corridor. “Courier, I don’t know what you did, but there’s a couple’a Securitrons waiting for you outside,” she jabbed one manicured thumb over the balcony, pointing at the small crowd forming around the Wrangler’s front doors. “They’ve come to collect you.”

Becket threw his head back, almost wailing, “‘collect me’? Is that Freeside lingo for ‘take you ‘round the corner and pump you full’a robot laser beams’?” He rolled his shoulders until they popped in the socket. “Let me get my damn shirt, Christ.”

Two minutes later he stepped through the lobby and into cold air. The only lights were those blinking from the store signs. The rest of Freeside was cloaked in a permeable darkness. Immediately, two glowing Securitrons swiveled to look at him. He squinted against the light and cupped his eyes, trying to adjust. The shots of moonshine he’d chugged a few hours prior began to curdle in his stomach. A liquor high still sifted in his blood.

“Sir, please follow us.” The Securitron’s voicebox crackled. It didn’t wait for an answer before turning to leave. Becket stumbled after, forced to keep pace unless he wanted the second one to bump into his heels. It happened, several times, and on each occasion he nearly broke his arms trying not to fall face-first into the concrete.

Their little caravan slid through New Vegas security without a blink of an eye. The smell of charred skin was unsavory and if he squinted, Becket could almost see the crisp white of bone.

“How barbaric.” He tutted.

Of course he’d been through the gates before. But that didn’t mean he’d gotten used to it.   

Gomorrah glistened like a fire on the horizon, blinding, even at the late hour. They never stopped and even as he passed bracketed in robotics, the dancers still leered and waved their arms in welcome. Something about it all left a bad taste in his mouth; the hollowed eyes, barely-there bruises and purpled veins. Not his scene.

They stopped in front of the Lucky 38, and there, rolling back and forth on the steps, was Victor.

The shadiest robot a man could ever know.

As soon as Becket’s foot hit the stairway it jerked towards him, screen flickering. “Well howdy there pardner! Sorry for dragging you out and all, but Mr. House here has been mighty anxious to meet you!”

Becket scowled. The false charm was almost as grating as the pretense of remorse. It was a tactic he himself used too often, and to see it utilized so tactlessly was a disgrace. At least he was honest about a situation. Use all the suave you please, but don’t sugarcoat the facts. “Mighty anxious” probably translated to “fucking furious” about being ignored for so long; it wasn’t as if Becket had been, just that he had other priorities. Priorities that included drinking his way into someone’s bed and getting enough caps to ditch town. Nothing personal.

“Oh, well of course,” he said, letting out a harsh breath. “Perfectly reasonable. I know lots of people anxious to meet me. ‘Suppose an escort is pretty flattering.”

“Wonderful! I’m so glad you see it that way.” Victor nearly god-damn squealed, the sarcasm flying right over his monitors. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll take ‘ya right up to him.”

“Well wouldn’t that be  _ swell. _ ”

Almost on cue, the building in front of them burst into life. The curved steel inlaid into the front broke forward, switching onto some hidden track and sliding away to reveal the front entrance. Plumes of smoke billowed out, a dark brown mix of dirt, rust, and leaves that nearly suffocated the surrounding patrons. Through the haze he could see an enthusiastic sign happily blinking the words ‘ _ open _ ’ from inside the lobby.

Victor gave an idle “hmn,” then launched right into the mess. Becket, on the brink of retching, followed him in. Once the sound of scraping mechanisms dulled he could hear the sounds of Mr. New Vegas fluttering through the lobby.

If he was frank, the placed smelled downright  _ musty _ \- as if it’d been filled to the brink with sweaty gamblers and sealed up for 200 years to marinate. Which, he supposed, was true. But still. Not what he expected.

Victor ushered him into the dimly lit elevator and squeezed in after. The rickety thing screeched all the way and Becket found himself grabbing onto the railings for dear life, not at all comforted by his companions humming of  _ Big Iron. _

“Do you think – “ Another scrape of wiring. “Fuck, Victor! Do you think you could tone it down for a minute?”

The robot giggled, surprisingly human. “Don’t be nervous! We’ll be there soon.”

“That’s… Oh for the love of...”

When they arrived – and he used the term loosely – there was a difference in the air. It reminded him of the Follower’s and their barracks; stripped, clinical, hygienic. Not clean smelling, really, but blank. An open canvas.

As soon as he saw the monitors, Becket knew he’d made the right decision in avoiding House.

***

He’d never met someone who could put such a feeling in his gut. Such a tangible sense of unease and naivety. In that penthouse Becket felt small. Like a pawn. House was unforgiving in his speech and uncensored in his thoughts. And, when you’re trapped in a room with him, one hell of a manipulator.

That fragile sense of freedom Becket so desperately clung to was smashed in two minutes and a sneer.  Another fish on the line. Baited by his own sense of curiosity.

“Bring me the platinum chip, and I’ll make sure you know everything you’ve ever done.”

***

House’s voice dripped with disappointment. “You completely disregarded any plan to apprehend Benny, a foolish oversight, and failed to come when summoned. You’ve accumulated quite the tainted record, Courier.”

“No offense, Mr. House, but I wasn’t aware I answered to you.” He fought to keep the hostility in, perfectly aware of the Securitrons huddled around them. Wouldn’t want to provoke anyone and end up ruining such a lovely carpet.

“Oh but you do. You see I was the one who hired you all. The six couriers meant to deliver my chip.”

From there it began to feel more like a monologue than actual conversation, but Becket stood and listened. Eyes forward, but occasionally drifting to look at the moon peeking over the windowsill. The fluorescent lights made him feel naked – washed. He answered here and there, little clipped responses that seemed to satisfy the man in front of him. For every word he said it felt like House was holding back ten more. Playing his cards.

It was infuriating.

“Now, what did you do with the platinum chip?”

His gaze switched back to House. “The what?”

House sighed, as if speaking were particularly taxing, “The platinum chip Benny carried on his person. You took it, yes?”

That night had been a dream; sharp around the edges, but the more he focused the more distorted it became. There were only impressions left. Like waves in a pool, hazy and fleeting. The thunder of chems, blood on a porcelain sink - The chip. He laughed to himself, sweeping his arms back to loop in his belt.  _ As if he’d been paying attention to a chip _ . “I didn’t see hide or hair of that coin, House Too busy skinning those boys.”

“You  _ lost _ it?” The monitor in front of him roared, speakers hissing at the volume. The face above remained impassive at permanent scowl.

“I didn’t lose it! It was never there. I took care of my business and left like a civilized human bein’ instead of a damn vulture.” Now Becket was yelling. No sense in keeping a pretense when they both knew how much the other hated it.

But House didn’t seem to blink an eye, instead humming a moment before shooting off, unfazed. “He must have taken it to the Fort. I should have known he’d have a backup plan. You’ll have to go there right away and retrieve it, before the Legion finds out what it’s for. There’s already plans in place an-“

“Mr. House, as gracious of an ‘offer’ as that is, I will have to decline.” Becket turned away. He slowly stepped out of the room. The Securitrons tracked him but stayed put. “I’m sure you’ll find some lucky fellow to do the job. Just send those fancy ‘bots of yours out there and you’ll have ‘em cowering. But I’ll be leaving the stage, thank you very much.”

“Bring me the platinum chip, and I’ll make sure you know everything you’ve ever done.”

In the distance, he could hear the line reeling in.

***

They let him go two hours later after Victor gave him the “grand tour” of the casino. It was the longest two hours he’d ever been forced to endure, every minute Victor would have some new fascinating ‘fact’ he just couldn’t keep in, and the damn thing’s wheels kept pushing dust into Becket’s face. By the time he was set free it felt like half his lungs were stuffed with Old World ashes. 

When the casino doors rattled open he couldn’t leave fast enough, pushing through the clammering things and through the crowds of reverent drunks that blocked his way. The slurred sounds of “oh god” and “he went in!” trailed after him all the way to Freeside. People brushed their hands across his arms like he was some kinda god, and that, more than anything else, was unnerving. 

It was uncomfortable to have that many eyes on him. Not that he had anything to hide, per say, but getting that much attention was a sure fire way to get yourself killed in the wasteland. Always people around who’d get a kick outta killing ‘rising stars’. He moved through it all until the lights and booze faded into the skyline. Above, the sun had already begun to rise and was painting the clouds a brilliant orange and pink hue, he almost stopped to admire it but thought better. 

He had other priorities now. 

The Atomic Wrangler was mostly deserted, aside from the few drunks and junkies who had been too wasted to slink out. The place reeked, as it usually did in the mornings before Francine had a chance to air it out, and the scent didn’t sit well with his stomach. Not when he had a million thoughts buzzing in his brain threatening to spill out. It was like every part of his brain wanted to go in a different direction - angry, frustrated, distressed. To be frank, he didn’t have time for such ridiculous things. 

Francine and James were both up and gave him a little nod when he walked through the front door. They had bags under their eyes and he noticed a couple of open bottles rolled out on the counter; Visits from securitrons would do that to just about anybody. 

He dipped his own head back at then scaled the stairs like fire was nipping his heels. The door to his room had been oh so graciously closed, so he jiggled the handle a minute before being allowed entrance. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. 

Becket groaned and walked into the bathroom. The whole place was covered in a thin layer of grime, but there was running water and it felt good to splash across his face. He thumbed the coarse hairs of his beard and frowned in the mirror; he needed to shave, but there was no time. 

It didn’t take long to gather everything he owned. Part of it struck him as pathetic - the fact that he could pack away his life so quickly. He had no roots, no obligations to hold him here in the Wrangler’s room. But the other part of him revealed in the efficiency. Why stay if you didn’t care?

So he packed it up. Shirts, caps, guns, magazines, and threw it all into a bag that fit snugly across his chest. He’d even made the bed as a finishing touch. The place smelled better than it had when he first moved in, so hey, there was his signature on the Atomic Wrangler. 

The twins looked at the bag with pupils the size of a saucer, but said nothing. He shrugged and gave them a smile before pushing out the door and slipping down the street. It was still early in the morning, the sun was up but not high enough to burn just yet. If he moved quick enough he could make it to Primm by nightfall - from there it was just as far as his feet could take him. 

House made a nice deal. The whole thing seemed seamless, really. Go here, find that, learn some shit. It was everything he wanted presented on a silver platter, and up there, in the fresh space of the Lucky 38’s penthouse, even he’d been moved. His eyes sparkled and knees went wobbly - the idea twisted into his torso like a drug, But once he left and the lights stopped dazzling and the actual  _ facts  _ set in, that euphoria dropped like a brick. 

He wasn’t a  _ dog.  _ Not some pawn to send off into Legion territory with a landmine strapped to his back, getting  _ his _ hands bloody for a bunch of robots. It wasn’t his fight. Not his business, and not his style. It sent something vicious through him. Something he hadn’t felt since The Tops - anger. Real, congealing malice. There was nothing in his head, but that didn’t make him a tool. He didn’t want to die alone on some crucifix. 

So there he was, slipping down the streets as quietly as he could. He eyed all the familiar places, all the jobs he was abandoning. And for a second his heart pulled. But then his ear caught the whir of a robot and the feeling crumpled like dirt,

It was time to leave. 

He was pushing the Freeside gate open when Arcade came up from behind. “And where are you going? Some surprise vacation you forgot to tell me about?”

“Arcade, Didn’t know you had a weakness for morning walks.” Becket replied, turning around to face the man. It looked as if he’d just risen out of bed, hair sticking up in all directions and sans lab coat. The good doctor was out in nothing more than some loose fitting pants and a stained tshirt, and on any other day it would have been a welcomed sight. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he sighed and grabbed the duffle bag with raised brows. “You are going somewhere, aren’t you?”

The excuse slipped off his tongue like honey. “‘Course I am. I’m leaving, Arcade. Times up here. I need to get out and stretch my wings for a good while, and you just can’t do that here in Freeside.” 

“You’re leaving?  _ What _ ?” Arcade gaped, face falling blank for a split second before curving into something angry. “Why? Owe the Garretts some money, or is there something else you aren’t telling me?”

“It’s, ah,” Becket turned and leaned against the doorframe. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard, he was just supposed to slip out and away. He was used to slipping out - he did it all the time when a night had gone on too long, but here in the daylight it was a different game. It was different when you had to stare a man in the face and tell him you were afraid. “I met Mr. House last night.”

“House? Robert House, the prewar mogul?” There was a moment of silence between them, nothing but two bodies roasting in the rising sun. Becket nodded and Arcade let out a pained groan, tilting his head back and covering his face. “You actually got into the Lucky 38? Did you plant anything?”

“Pla-” Becket spluttered, “Plant? What in the god damned do you think I was doing up there? Sippin’ cocktails and laughing with all the other VIPS? The man had me locked in a room and didn’t stop spewing his fancy words for an hour straight!”

Arcade glowered at him with squinted eyes, obviously unappreciative of his sarcasm. “What exactly did he “spew” at you, Becket? I can’t imagine he brought you up there to talk about guns.”

The courier shrugged. “You’d be surprised. He wants me to go to Fortification Hill and pick something up. I told him I would, and now I’m skipping town. Or was attempin’ to, before you jumped out of the damn woodwork!”

“You can’t just leave!” The other man yelled. His waved his arms theatrically and pointed at the top of the casino, still in view even from across town. “If you go, House will hire some two-bit raider mercenary to do the job and no one will ever find out how he’s still alive!”

“Well forgive me if that’s not my priority, doc,” Becket snarled, “Cause I have no interest in dying for him. I came to this town for one, very, very specific reason, and that reasons gone. Now I gotta go too.”

Arcade went blank, still as a statue. His eyes were cold. “What about everyone here? All the jobs, the people? You’re leaving them to die?”  

“I don’t  _ want _ them too, damn it. Hell, I probably knew ‘em in another life. But I can’t do nothing and then get dragged through the streets by Houses’ ‘bots. I don’t know what else to do, Arcade.” His voice lowered with each word until his throat no longer strained against the volume. “No matter what I do, someone is out there tryna kill me.”

Arcade’s face softened. He reached out and touched Becket’s arm, squeezing it briefly. “There’s another way to do this. You don’t have to run off into the desert like some scared damsel.”

“Oh,” the laugh came out as a surprise. A small little sound he couldn’t quite keep down, but the effort brought a smile to the doc’s face. “And here I was, about to slip into my favorite number. So what do you suggest? Marching into the camp wearing nothing but this and two fat mans?:

“Nothing so dramatic. You ever think about talking to them?” Arcade rolled his eyes. 

“Talkin’? What, when they’re stringing me up for the crows?”

“With all hope, we’ll open our mouths before that point, Becket.”


	7. In Hindsight

 

 

In Hindsight

“What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlonely being alone can be.” 

-Ellen Burstyn

It's easy to hate the desert. People born there grow to love and resent it in equal parts, depending on the day and position of the sun. It's easy to love on quiet mornings: When light makes the sand ripple a thousand hues. Orange, white and red shimmering over hills while the wind sweeps by. Before the geckos wake and start yowling up from caverns dug deep into the mountainside. The air tastes crisp and sweet around the yucca plants, which always seem to glow during the bone deep chill of the night.

Even raiders feel the eerie stillness of the hour - the only sound around them coming from the metallic  _ clinks _ of patchwork armor. Whenever someone does come - some poor bastard just trying to make it to New Vegas - it always feels wrong to kill em. As if it's offending the Mojave itself by disrupting the static.

After the first shot it's like the whole place wakes up, startled. A little pissed off. The sun starts a breakneck pace across the skyline ( _ as if _ it has somewhere else to be) and burns everything below into a washed out yellow. All the devils of the desert squirm in one collective movement, driven by instinct to hunt and kill. The farmers wake up, the soldiers and gamblers and raiders. Like ants emerging from a hill they start to swarm. 

In the daylight everything become dangerous. The rivers, which looked so tranquil under a blue moon, now emit a menacing aura. The sun illuminates every ugly detail of the Mojave: the mossy carapace of a mirelurk just under the water, a mangled body bleeding out on the shore. It's easy to hate the desert when you see it’s finer details. 

Whether you love it or hate it, the Mojave is content in its simplicity. It's a place where survival is the paramount authority. The sooner one accepted that, the sooner you'd find yourself living a pretty decent life.

Then again, it was too easy to think of it like that - black and white. If New Vegas taught him anything it was that good and bad are a lot more complicated. 

He knew he was being used, of course. No matter how many robots House sent, none of them could ever accomplish what a single human could while in the Legion's HQ. The plan called for more than blazing guns and stiff mechanical finesse. So there he was. It wasn't his fight and it wasn't his problem; whatever pre-war pissing match there was between House, Caesar and the NCR should have stayed between them alone. But he was weak.

Since moving into Freeside Becket had actually begun to feel complete. Sure, it was a simple life, but hell if it didn't suit him just fine. A week after the Tops incident he'd sent Boone home with a bottle of whisky and two days worth of supplies. He'd stood there a moment, all quiet like, before nodding and making his way out the gates. He didn't bother with theatrics and tears because they both knew it was only a matter of time before Becket came back to Novac. 

After that he'd swung by to the Mormons and picked up a reluctant Arcade, who roasted under the sun in just a few short hours. Poor fella. But, he did adjust eventually (with the help of some aloe) and after that life rolled on.

Sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of the night, arms and legs seized up so tight it felt like his muscles would snap. He'd freeze like that for a couple minutes before it punched back outta him. There were flashes - phantom pains and screams, fingers clawing into his heels - that left him feeling tender and vulnerable for hours. He'd leave his room with a stuttered gait that garnered misplaced thumbs-up and lewd winks that he'd return with lackluster vigor, because no one needed to know what haunted his nights.

He never forgot the Fiend who called his name. Every once and awhile Raiders would come into the Wrangler talking about patrols outside the city, lurking around like vultures. They kept to the West, mostly, and that comforted him somewhat. He didn't want to run into her ever again.

He did what House asked because no matter how good life was it could never cover up the dark pit in the back of his mind. The feeling he got when he looked in the mirror and felt nothing. Saw nothing more than a blank slate that wasn't  _ him _ . But as much as he wanted it, he didn't want to face it. Not yet. Not cornered under some rock while it tries to stab him into a pulp.

They left Freeside early in the morning carrying everything they couldn't sell or pawn off. The North gate was bracketed by several Kings who gave them their boss's blessing - a small bag of caps and salted brahmin jerky. Outside the safety of town, everything slowed down.

“I know I don't come out here much, but isn't Cottonwood Cove the other way?” Arcade asked, stopped several feet back down the path. Becket paused to look back.

“Sure is, but unless you wanna run into a pack of Fiends I suggest we hug the mountain until Camp Gulf, then cut over to route 188.”

Arcade grabbed his chest, head tipped back theatrically. “An actual strategy, be still my heart!”  

“What? We strategize every day!” Becket squawked indignantly. 

They walked side by side and jumped over a group of bulging rocks. Camp Golf almost looked like a mirage in the distance, the brown edges wavering with each step. “It can’t be called strategizing if every option leads to us charging head-first into a knife fight.”

Becket scowled. “Well, me. I was the one doin’ all the charging. You just sit back with that fancy gun of yours, cool as ice.” 

“Never underestimate the potency of energy weapons. Especially when utilized by hands like these.”

“Oh yeah? You got nice hands, Arcade?” 

He got a coy smile in return, but the doctor turned his gaze to the yucca plant they were passing by. “I’ve heard good things.”

Becket smiled to himself. He stuck his hands into his pockets and cracked his neck, feeling rejuvenated by the conversation. He liked talking with Arcade. For the distraction and for the puzzle behind it all. There was always something bumping around in his head, mostly unsaid, but always there. Like he knew the answer to everything but didn’t want the world to know he did. 

“Sounds like a story. Tell me.” Becket watched as Arcade plucked the yucca fruits one by one from the tree and tossed it into his sack. The question earned him an incredulous look. 

“You really want to know?”

He shrugged. “Novac’s a long way off. We got time.”

Once the last fruit plopped into the bag they started walking again, this time blanketed under the shade of the mountainside. Arcade had this look on his face, a mix of nostalgia and arousal, that stuck out against the rest of his stiff body. It was intoxicating. 

“It was a long time ago, when the Followers first set up in Freeside. Back then everyone was tripping over themselves trying to help us.” He sighed. “They stayed to set up and get everything running. A few even volunteered for the long run.”

“Awful nice of them.” 

“Mmm. Anyways, one of them was this kid. He used to be a King but came to us when he thought he could make a bigger difference through the Followers. It took forever to get the fight out of him - he held onto that persona like it was the only thing keeping him on two feet.”

“A little troublemaker.” Becket chuckled and kicked a rock ahead of them. “What happened to him?”

“They gave him to me. ‘ _ Put him with Gannon,’  _  they said, ‘ _ he needs an assistant,’ _ they said. He could barely read, then. So we spent the next few months learning.” Arcade rolled his eyes, huffing out the words like the memory offended him.

“And that's all you did, huh? The good doctor took the urchin under his wing and made him a scholar?” 

Arcade laughed and shook his head. “I've had a lot of men in my life, but he still managed to leave an impression. He figured out pretty soon that good grades merited reward.” 

“Arcade!” Becket gasped and pushed him away playfully. “I never would've expected it from you.”

“What? The sex or the success? He was reading Shakespeare by the end of the year.” The doctor grinned down at his feet, not another inch of him shy.

“So what happened to him?” Becket asked. The way Arcade’s face scrunched up didn’t suggest good news, and for a moment Becket prayed the kid hadn’t died. The wish surprised him. 

“He ran off. Woke me up one morning for a quick tumble and told me he was leaving for Reno with his new girl, afterwards, all in the same breath. You can imagine my reaction.” Arcade waved his hand flippantly, looking like he was fighting off a sour mood. “I never heard from him again.”

“You think he made it?” 

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wish he has. But I am still human. Every once and awhile I hope he tripped on the way out.” The doctor snorted. “ _ Ultio dulcis est. _ Revenge is sweet.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that.”

***

When they cut over onto the 188 it was past noon and Camp Golf withered behind them in the unforgiving heat. Their feet dragged dragged in the sand, sweating from the boiling grains, but there was nothing to do about it. They could have run all the way to Novac and saved themselves the trouble of a slow pace - done so and died of heat exhaustion three hours in. The only way to get through the desert was to pace yourself. Even if it meant shuffling all the way there. 

They stopped for lunch at the 188 trading post, slumping against the flimsy wooden countertop of the bar while a girl - Michelle? - poured them water. He felt every drop slide down his throat and into the empty pit of his gut, swaying with him as he moved to face Arcade, deadpanned. 

“This has to be the best damn drink I’ve ever had. We should come here more often.”

They stayed another hour to catch their breath and trade with the other wanderers and merchants. One of the women, military looking with hard eyes, almost took a knife to his throat when he proposed a trade. 

The feral way she snarled set him on edge. First alarmed, then threatened. “You’re lucky I don’t skin you alive. Get the fuck out of here.” 

“We have a problem?” Becket shrugged to drop the backpack off his shoulder, but as soon as he moved Arcade slipped between the two and grabbed him by his necklace chain, leading him away with a sharp yank. Becket scowled at him in confusion. “Do  _ we _ have a problem, Arcade?”

“Despite your usual breathtaking observation skills, you seemed to have forgotten what exactly you’re wearing around your neck right now, in the middle of NCR territory.” He tugged on the chain for good measure, looking down at the Bull pendant pointedly. “This isn’t an appropriate place to show off your Roman pride.”

Becket tucked his chin to his chest and looked down at the faded gold currently rested in Arcade’s palm. “Well shit.”

It only took a moment to tuck the bauble away under his jacket lapel, but by then the damage was done. Any ammo or guns the merchant had were officially off limits. Not that he wanted to test her, anyways. Her hand looked twitchy on her holstered 10mm. 

They drank another round before sliding off the stools and down the hillside of the 188. It was a comfortable silence, and by then the heat of the day began to trickle away into something more bearable. When a cool breeze rolled by he’d nearly moaned. The look Arcade gave him was something he’d save in the back of his mind forever.

When Old Lady Gibson’s shack rolled into view it felt like a homecoming. He remembered the last time he’d been in Novac and smiled. Boone had promised him no one would riot over Jeannie May’s death - they likely wouldn’t even mention it when he walked into town. They all loved him so much he probably could’ve killed her right in front them all and still walked away clean. 

The sun hadn’t set quite yet, but it’s orange glow still flowed over the rooftops like a shadow. The sound of people grew the closer they came; once the day’s work ended they all poured out of the woodwork, ready to eat, drink and visit like they hadn’t seen each other just a couple hours prior. It was tight-knit in an endearing way, and he watched Arcade absorb it all through intense scrutiny. The mess hall rattled with clanking flasks and skillets, and from down the road Becket could almost make out Manny Vargas perched on top of one of the barstools. 

He stopped walking and grabbed Arcade’s sleeve, steering the doctor towards the hotel instead. “Not yet. Got a friend to see first.”

Arcade arched a brow and nodded towards the orange-hued dinosaur looming over them. “Your brooding sniper, I presume? Will I bear witness to this happy reunion or would you like some privacy?” 

“Come on up. Boone could use some new friends.”

Boone wasn’t ready for some new friends, as it turned out. 

He’d been expecting Becket to arrive within the week and had known to keep an eye out, but when Becket arrived, with Arcade in tow, it prickled him. Whatever repertoire they’d built up was halted by the good doctor’s presence. There was a very ‘Boone’ welcome, of course. A grunted ‘hey’ and a nod, but Becket knew he was never a very affectionate man. There were introductions and together they caught Boone up with newest mechanisms of New Vegas. When he heard he wouldn’t be going with them into Legion territory there was a suffocating pause. 

“You gonna kill him?”

“Who? Caesar?”

“Yeah.”

Becket shrugged. “Not now.” 

The sniper scoffed, looking away to thumb his rifle. “Wasted opportunity, if you ask me.”

“Thought you might say somethin’ like that.” Becket smiled to himself, then shook his head. The Bull pendant twisted into his palm while he worked the chain between his fingers. “If I ever do it, you can bet you’ll be right there with me.”

Boone smirked, apparently imagining the event unfold in his mind. “I’ll hold you to it.”

They left the gift shop shortly after that. No matter how much he pressed Boone to join him down at the mess hall, the man was a stone statue. He wouldn’t leave his post even if the gift shop itself was on fire - unless Cliff screamed ‘Legion in the lobby’. So he and Arcade shuffled down the steep staircase only to be stopped in the lobby by Cliff, who handed him a motel room key and smiled. “Everyone agrees you’ve done a lot for the town, and we think you deserve somewhere permanent to rest your head.”

With weariness creeping into his bones, Becket didn’t mention Jeannie May. 

Arcade spoke, voice laced with sarcasm, when they opened the door and watched dust swirl out like a particle fog. “Well, this looks homely.”

It looked relatively well-preserved, all things considered. Aside from the dust everything looked clean and the food still fresh on the table. There was a queen sized bed that came with pillows and blankets - a sight that made his bones creak in desire. The bedside lamps made everything look soft and hazy - relaxing. But as tired as he was, there was still business to take care of. 

ED-E sat on a table in the corner of the room, powered down by Boone a few weeks prior. He’d sent the little guy back to Novac the same time he’d sent Boone. As much fun as it was to see him zoom around Freeside, Becket had been too distracted to keep fending off the scavengers who drooled every time the droid came into sight.  Arcade eyed it with suspicion. 

“Is that...yours?”

“It is! Thing’s practically my kid,” he grinned and walked over to ED-E, running his hands over it’s bumpy chassis.  “You two never really got an introduction, did you? I’ll wake ‘im up in the morning and we can have a little meet ‘n greet, right here.”

Arcade grimaced. “I’ll wait with bated breath.”

“Alright, so,” Becket clapped his hands together. Arcade would get used to the lil guy. “I’m gonna head back down and talk to some folks at the mess hall. You coming along or you wanna get a headstart on some sleep?”

He was waved off. “I think I’ve had my fill of socially awkward conversations. Go indulge yourself in some depravity while I get my beauty sleep.”

“Suit yourself. But, and this is just my humble opinion,” at that Arcade rolled his eyes and was forced to smother the laugh threatening to pour out from between his chapped lips, “if you sleep too much more you’re gonna start blinding people. Which is a great tactical advantage, actually -  would scare the shit outta Raiders. However, it would put quite the damper on our relationship.” Becket gave him a lewd wink and shut the door behind him quietly. 

***

The mess hall was still in an uproar by the time he arrived. The first few drunks of the night made themselves apparent through near-screeching laughter and spilled drinks - all too happy. The rest of the patrons glared from across the tent, apparently appraising themselves as the more ‘civilized’ folks. Becket eyed the randy bunch with barely concealed envy. He liked a good drink now and then, of course, but he could never let go enough to fade under the haze. There was always a weight in his gut that fought against the feeling - the dissociation. The helplessness.

But the desired withered when he locked gazes with Manny Vargas, who waved him over with sharp eyes. He hadn’t planned on visiting Manny during their stay, but now that he saw the man there was an undeniable attraction still dormant. Memories from their last interaction stirred a wholly different weight in his stomach.

“Well now, there's a face I didn't think I'd be seeing again.”

Becket grinned and took the drink Manny pushed towards him. “I’ve always been a creature of habit. That’s an assumption, of course. I say it cause it sounds charming.”

Manny cringed, sipping his drink. “God knows you don’t need more of that. You’ll have half of the god damned town in your pants by the end of the night.”

Becket hadn’t slept with someone in weeks. Despite the fact that Freeside had a lot to offer, as far as debauchery went. You couldn’t pass a corner without being beckoned away by some girl in a flimsy shift or boys who looked a hair too nervous to work the alleys. He’d even rounded up new ones for the Wrangler - James had winked and offered one of them “on the house”, but Becket refused. It was too soon after The Tops and his libido had been particularly subdued after the incident. Too much to think about, too much to do. His last ‘real’ encounter had been with a doe-eyed trader’s daughter in one of the Wrangler’s coat closets. 

He’d been between her legs when she admitted he was her first, and at that he stopped (after  finishing the job, though). He was happy to fool around in the tight space and relieve her aches, but not to give such a sub-par introduction to sex. For that he offered his room later in the night. She’d agreed with a shy grin and a nervous laugh. Neither of them had anticipated her father leaving that same afternoon with her in tow. The built up tension resulted a sense of imploding  when he saw the two of them leave. 

He was more than ready to relieve that tension now.

“As fun as that sounds,” the reply was uttered low, drawing the sniper closer in curiosity. “I’m craving something a little more particular tonight.”

A surprised flush made Manny’s cheeks turn terracotta red. His brows rose as he straightened in his seat. “You don’t beat around the bush, do ya?”

Becket shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s been a long day. And I know things much more fun to beat than bushes, Vargas.”

“That’s terrible, you know that? Christ, how do you get people into bed?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Hmm,” Manny polished off the remainders of his drink, the amber liquid disappearing between full lips. “You’ll have to remind me.”

***

They couldn’t go to his room. He wouldn’t have minded the extra company but Becket doubted Arcade would take too kindly to him bringing lovers into their shared space. The rusted out gas station would have to do. 

Manny was the one who’d suggested it, pushing him playfully in it’s direction.

The two of them fumbled against each other, busy unbuckling and shoving their hands against skin, before stumbling into the store and letting the door rattle shut behind them. The last time he’d been in Novac Becket had torn down the boarded doors and encouraged people to make use of the space - and, as it turns out, he must have made quite the impression. 

Someone had dragged two bedrolls into the corner of the store and slid them together to form a plush mattress. Around it were scattered blankets and pillows - all seemingly clean. The two men stopped to stare at the spread of cushions and the unlit candles forming a circuit around them. Becket swat Manny’s chest and scowled in mock indignation.

“Am I getting leftovers or were you just  _ praying _ I’d stroll into town again one day?”

Manny came from behind and encircled his waist with corded arms. Even in the lax position Becket could feel the other man’s impressively concealed musculature. Absently, he wondered if Manny could kill him with a well placed squeeze. He was distracted from the thought when a series of open mouthed kisses pressed into his neck, causing him to hum appreciatively. 

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I prayed for your mouth plenty of times.’ The hands clutching his stomach went slack, instead moving to squeeze Becket’s hips. The rough callous of Manny’s hands were tangible through the thin material of his shirt. More so when they pushed him forward and onto the bed. 

While Becket preferred being a more active participant during sex, it was clear Manny expected submission in his partners. Which was fine, really, and Becket couldn’t help the smug expression on his face when he flipped onto his back to watch Manny straddle his thighs. The sniper’s weight was nice. 

Manny covered him like a blanket, leaning forward to bracket Becket’s head while they kissed languidly. What started out as slow quickly spun out of control, both of them feeling the curl of arousal building in their gut. Manny began to grind, slow and dirty, before shoving one knee between Becket’s legs and forcing pressure on the hardness growing there. The action drew a pleased groan from Becket, who was currently licking a stripe up Manny’s jugular. 

“Mmm, as fun- ah, as this is, think we could skip to the main event?” Becket breath came out in a huff. 

Manny, opting against vocal agreement, just grunted. He lifted his hips up enough for Becket to reach down and kick his pants off. Precome arced across the front of his boxers, the material darkened into a deep grey. He reached to slip off those as well, but Manny caught his wrist and brought Becket’s hands to his hair instead. 

“Oh,”

Manny smirked up at him as he slid down Becket’s body, incisors sparkling in the candlelight. He mouthed across the damp material without warning, tonging the twitching cock underneath in broad strokes. Becket’s hips bucked off the mattress as his head dropped back onto the pillow. 

“Shit,  _ shit _ ,”

Rough hands latched onto his hips again and held him firmly against the bed. Manny bit the elastic band of his boxers and tugged them down, tucking behind his balls. Everywhere at once, weight was pinning him down and holding tight. Spit slicked lips mouthed up the side of his cock and closed around the head. The two made eye contact before Manny slid the rest of it down in one go. 

The moan he let out was nearly a wail. Manny’s mouth was velvet soft and warm, pulsing around him in the loveliest way. He bobbed in long, full strokes that sucked away every ounce of power Becket had. Manny was using him. His eyes gleamed triumphantly when Becket’s fingers spasmed in his hair. The Khan took one hand off his hip and dug under his pants to knead Becket’s ass. The grip was just shy of too hard, alternating between reverent cupping and domineering squeezes. 

The room was filled with wet gasps. Hollowed out cheeks made Becket’s eyes roll into the back of his head. His cock felt full. The pulse loud as thunder but soft as lapping waves. He tugged on Manny’s hair sharply.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Becket choked out. The words were hoarse. Manny paused, mouth still latched onto the tip of his cock. He let it drop, slowly. A trail of saliva connected Manny’s lips and the head as it slapped wetly onto Becket’s stomach. 

“Problem?” Manny replied smugly. 

“You tryin’ to suck the soul outta me?.” Becket did wail this time, his chest rising and dropping in exertion. His pants were swallowed a moment later when Manny reclaimed his mouth. The kiss pushed him further into the mattress as Manny covered him again. He felt the rest of his boxers being tugged off impatiently. 

“Not before I fuck you.” Manny broke away and mouthed the words into his ear. 

Becket groaned. “Better get to work, then,” his legs fell open in invitation. “You brought lube?”

Manny heaved himself up into a crouch. He slipped his shirt off and tossed in off into the corner gracelessly, revealing a toned abdomen. Becket reached up and ran his hands over the freshly revealed skin. “I did, yeah.” He undid a pocket and pulled out a small vial. “Not how I imagined opening you up, though.”

The confession sent another wave of arousal through him.“Oh?”

“Been feelin’ mouthy tonight.”

“ _ Oh, _ ”

For the second time that night, Manny slid down his body and hooked Becket’s leg over his shoulder. Warm breath puffed out against his inner thigh like a promise. Manny’s tongue soothed gentle nips into the sensitive skin. Becket hid his face in the crook of his forearm. It had been too long since he bottomed. Now that he had the opportunity his blood was singing for it. Anticipation clung to the air like a fog. It felt surreal. So much so that neither of them heard the rusted hinges of the front door swing open. 

“Hey- Oh- Jesus Christ!”

Funnily enough, Manny’s first instinct was to tug Becket under him so that his groin was shielded. The movement happened so quickly Becket hadn’t even removed his forearm from across his eyes when he felt it beginning. He finished a moment later, just in time to see Arcade turn his back to them and shove his face into his hands. 

“Arcade. Hello.” Becket said breathily. Manny looked between the two of them with a deeply embarrassed expression. Well. At least  _ he _ still had his clothes on. 

“Ah, yes. Hello.” The doctor’s words came out stuttered and drenched in awkwardness. “Sorry to interrupt you... mid coitus, but your robot woke up and kept beeping at me. Threateningly. So I took it upon myself to find you. I’ll be leaving now, since that mission is complete.”

“Much appreciated.”

Arcade bolted for the door like his feet were on fire, shutting it behind him firmly and leaving the door of them alone once more. Manny swung his gaze from the now vacant doorway to Becket. 

The sound of crickets was almost as tangible as the broken mood. 

“In hindsight, a lock might’ve been a good precaution.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> becket's a bottom, pass it on.
> 
> also, i prOMISE I'M NOT ACTUALLY THIS INTERESTED IN MANNY. of all the characters I imagined writing sex scenes with, he wouldn't even be on the list???? but here he is? next time. Gannons gonna finally get to fire his cannon, I swear


	8. The Ladder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becket crosses the Colorado

The Ladder

“You only have power over people so long as you don't take everything away from them. But when you've robbed a man of everything, he's no longer in your power - he's free again.”

\- Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

“You'd be better off coming from the side. They'll be expecting you to go down through the canyon like everyone else.” Boone's agitation had long since bled into a low-simmering discomfort. He stood ramrod stiff, staring at the Pipboy’s map as if every move planned was one he’d be taking instead of Becket. The subject was wearing on them all. 

They’d been there for two hours already; stood in the gift shop lobby, they marked up the map with furious intensity while scouting any additional exits. After a certain point there wasn’t much more they could accomplish, but leaving felt like admitting defeat. There were only a handful of ways into the canyon and no one felt like making a new one via landslide.

“We're visiting, not plannin’ a full frontal assault. Coming in all sneaky won't make a bit of difference if we're gonna announce ourselves anyways.” Becket murmured. The pipboy’s faded glow was beginning to hurt his eyes. The gift shop had shit lighting, a complete absence of windows will have that effect, and forced them all to squint down at the device's screen in close quarters. He regret not picking up some mints when they were at the 188. 

Arcade’s height allowed him to tower over the two, looking down at it with barely concealed frustration. “They'll be expecting some level of distrust. If we  _ did _ come sneaking down the canyon I'd doubt they'd be offended. That being said, I still advise against breaking character right off the bat.”

“The longer we wait the twitchier they'll get.” Becket sighed, popping his fingers one by one. The awful cracking made Boone scowl. “Should probably head out soon. No point in delaying it, really.”

“What about the Fiends?”

The report came in around 3am the night prior, rushed in by some local boy whose voice didn’t quite fit his body. A small but well armed group of Fiends had been sighted down the road from Gibson’s scrapyard. They were hiding out in the old El Dorado gas station but looked twitchy, like they were gearing up to move. It wasn’t uncommon for raiders to scout out Novac - it wouldn’t be the Mojave if the occasional skirmish didn’t happen - but this group was too small for a raid. It had looked more like a scouting party. 

Boone woke him up as soon as the report came in. Armed with a pistol and one stimpak, Becket had walked out to Gibson’s yard to stand with Boone and a couple other of the town’s guards. 

He borrowed the sniper’s rifle to get a closer look. 

He hadn’t expected to recognize any of them. Especially the short, skull adorned woman who had called his name outside of Westside all those weeks ago. Hadn’t expected the sudden wave of nausea that swept over him. He’d almost forgotten about her. 

Back in the present, Becket shrugged.“They’ll follow us outta town. And unless they have some bikes stuck up their asses there’s no way they’ll catch up to us before we reach Cottonwood Cove. We won’t be carrying much anyways.”

Boone nodded, stepping back from their pseudo circle. “You can leave anything important in the motel room. Me and Manny will keep an eye on it while you're gone.”

Becket fought to keep his face impassive. The mention of Vargas sent a wave of tension through the three of them (well,  _ two _ of them). After Arcade’s interruption the night before he and Manny parted ways, equally unsatisfied but understanding that the mood was ruined. There was a beat of silence before Becket answered. “Thanks, pal. I'm sure we'll be back to collect soon. If not, feel free to scavenge.”

Arcade swiveled, now turned to face the doorway while he looked over his shoulder, pointedly avoiding Becket’s stare. “In that case, I’m heading out to take the cleanest locker and tie up some loose ends. I’ll meet up with you later.”

As soon as the door shut Becket shot Boone an exasperated look. “You had to mention Manny?”

There was a small twitch in the corners of Boone’s mouth. “You know how long it's gonna take to crack open that awkward shell Gannon’s dancin’ around in?  _ Hours,  _ Boone. Hours of me, him, and some boatflies trudging down that canyon.”

“You'll live.”

“It’s not about surviving! It's the  _ quality  _ of life I'm concerned about here. I could be crucified this time tomorrow and my final hours’ll be spent withering away under his disappointed stare.” 

They moved up the steps and into the sniper's nest. It was morning, the sunrise setting everything in a soft glow. Manny wouldn't be coming for his patrol for another half hour at least. The air, bordering on tepid, was still a pleasant change from the dust filled interior of the gift shop and felt good against the men's skin as they sat down in rusted fold outs.

“How long you been sleeping with Vargas?” Boone's expression was tastefully concealed by his sunglasses. 

“Not long. Once when we met and the second ti- hmn.” He paused, scratching his beard. “Well. If you wanna get technical we've only gone biblical once and a  _ half. _ Is that a problem?”

Boone shrugged. “No. Just didn't know he swung that way. Surprised me.”

“Surprised poor Gannon too. We’re gonna have to have a long talk about it. A long, crippling stunted talk. He looked positively  _ rattled _ .”

“You’ll be busy. Not much time to talk when you’re dodging raiders.”

Becket went somber at their mention. “No kidding.”

“Seems like you have some history with ‘em.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement. No judgement clung to the words like he had expected. 

Becket stood and grabbed onto one of Dinky’s teeth to balance himself while he looked out the side of the maw. The El Dorado gas station was a nickle sized speck on the horizon. Even if he squinted there was no sign of the Fiends. “If I do, its nothing I remember.”

***

“Hey, can we talk for a minute?”

The question broke the silence they’d been walking in for the past hour. It was said casually enough, but a part of Becket still felt squeamish about all the different things it implied. So far neither of them had brought up the night before, something he appreciated - they both needed to be in sync for this - and hoped would continue. But hell, his luck had to run out eventually.

Becket turned back and squinted against the sunlight haloing Arcade’s head. They’d been lucky enough to walk with the sun to their backs and soon enough the canyon would swallow up any remaining rays. This was the first time the light bothered him since they left Novac. “Sure thing, what’s up?”

“I’m just wondering what the actual plan is once we get there. If it were up to Boone this would be an assassination plot. Guess I’m just wondering where your head’s at.” Arcade replied. The sincerity behind it threw Becket off as much as the topic itself. There was something calculating about his gaze, but kind. Like he'd accept the answer no matter which way it went. 

Sunlight burned against his pupils. Becket sighed, wishing he’d brought a hat. “Well, first things first, we gotta get that damn chip for House. Don’t imagine Caesar will be willin’ to give it up easy peasy, either. But I’m not planning on running in and killing half the Legion. I’ll listen to what he has to say and go from there. We’re guests after all.” 

Arcade’s face scrunched together in some unidentifiable emotion. For a minute it looked like he was about to object, thin lips pressed into an even thinner line, but in the end he just shrugged and nodded in assent. “True enough. Lead on, then. I can’t imagine what kind of welcome party is waiting for us down by river.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure it’ll involve a helluva lot of skirts and fur, though. Let's hope there’s no big winds coming through anytime soon.” Becket grinned. As silly as some of the Legion armor looked, he had to admit there was a certain level of comfort and flexibility in there. Probably rattled less than NCR armor, too. Some of their pieces sounded like marbles in a tin can once a firefight started. 

“I doubt it would make it through the canyon anyways.” Arcade shot back. As he said it Becket glanced upwards to look around them. The mouth of the canyon looked ominous. Steep walls of packed dirt harbored them from the sun and any direct radiation, but the in-and-out weave made for easy cover. No telling what was hiding behind the next curve. His theory was confirmed when, less than a minute later, a feral ghoul’s shriek echoed around them.

If he squinted, Becket could make out some crucifixes in the distance. They'd meet their contact within the hour.

“Certainly know to make us feel welcomed…” He murmured. Arcade scoffed.

“Somehow, I doubt they want the extra foot traffic. The Cove is the Legion's primary slave gallery in the Mojave. They keep it this side of the river because it's easier to trade with locals; not too many people willingly travel into Legion territory. That, and to taunt the NCR.” Arcade explained, then, more quietly, “they act like it's a stage. The great human tragedy.”

The ghoul they heard earlier shambled around an upcoming corner. Even from a distance the acrid smell of radiated flesh was overwhelming. Becket shot it down with distaste. “They do a lot of slavin’? I have to admit I'm not really... Familiar with the subject.”

This time Arcade sighed, barely keeping the frustration out of his voice “It's their primary source of currency. Slavery plays a major role in both their social and economical structures. It's what they believed Rome was like, I think. Some archaic interpretation of Caesar's.” 

Becket shrugged. “Dunno what it was like before the bombs dropped, but somehow I get the impression we did just fine without that bit. Well. Until the whole ‘kill thy neighbor’ part at the end.”

The pathway widened, opening up into a larger area that let in more light than the others. The heightened visibility revealed just how wrecked the road really was. The concrete had long since deteriorated, leaving behind the occasional chunk of rock, and in its place was an array of track and debris. Empty boxes and torn backpacks tossed to the side, discharged ammo lodged halfway into the walls. He'd stepped closer to salvage it when the tip of his boot cracked against bone. 

The sharp snap was loud enough to scare him into jumping back. “What the hell!” 

Arcade whipped around, index finger already tickling his trigger. “What- oh.”

The two of them looked down at the spread out skeleton. It was child sized.

Becket turned away, running a hand across his face. “Now that's… That's a damn shame.”

He expected something for Arcade, distress, disgust - something - so when no comment was made he turned to see what was wrong. The doctor wasn't looking at the body anymore, he gaze now focused on a point in the opposite direction. Becket swiveled, immediately seeing what the big deal was. 20 feet ahead of them was a break in the canyon’s surface. He recognized it.

They called it The Ladder. Running alongside the wide berth of the trader’s path was a thin trail cutting up through the canyon walls in a vicious strip. It was wide enough for a small adult to climb and adorned with erratically spread rock grips. But, looking at it now, it was obvious several of them had fallen out over the years.The dirt comprising it was stained a darker red than it’s neighboring grains, giving it the appearance of a bruised vein fluttering against skin. 

It was the quickest way out of Cottonwood Cove if you were strong enough. One wrong move and your shoulder would be ripped clean from the socket as you fell. 

It was the slave’s path. Boone was the one who told him about it. Long before any of them planned on visiting a fort full of deranged Romans, he and Boone had sat around a fire and talked.

Slaves didn't escape often. It simply wasn't realistic given their physical and mental conditions. Even if one did manage to slip away there was no outrunning a squad of  muscled Legionnaires who were used to jogging miles around the Fort every day. Caught slaves were less than trash. Unreliable merchandize. Try it once, have your legs broken. Try it twice, they’ll make it permanent. Sell you off as a broken-in bed slave for the highest bidder. 

So if you did try, you better make it. 

The Ladder was the only way to get out of Cottonwood Cove without running into Legionnaires. It cut travel time almost in half, and by the time the slavers caught up you would be halfway to Boulder city and NCR sanctuary. Most people thought it was some last-ditch “fuck you” monument carved out by NCR squadrons after the first Battle of Hoover Dam - a ladder to freedom for anyone fleeing the fort. Boone told him otherwise. Propaganda rumors to heighten morale.

The NCR didn't give a shit about the slaves across the river. Never had, never will. And no rebellious group of green faced recruits would ever make it out of Legion territory alive, much less be able to carve some half-cocked line in the wall. The Ladder, in all its shitty, lethal quality, was a Legion construction. 

A game. Make it to the top and they'd let you live out the fantasy - for hour or so. Until you reached the patrol waiting for you at the bottom of the hill. That's if you even made it up the canyon - most fell a third of the ways up and broke their backs. 

Arcade stared at it. 

Becket gently touched his shoulder “C’mon, we're gonna be late.”

***

The decanus that met them looked like he'd been stationed there for several hours already. He stood in a parade stance and watched them approach silently. To his left was a smaller, twitcher recruit who seemed to melt under the intense heat. His armor - all skirts and no plating, Becket noted - left his shoulders and face at the sun’s mercy. When Becket and Arcade came into view the boy straightened his own stance, wincing when the action pulled his inflamed skin.

 

The decanus stepped forward and plunged right into the welcome speech. “Courier. I am Decanus Severus. Caesar has been expecting you. I see you carry his mark; with it, you may pass through the camp as you please until the cursor Lucullus arrives to transport you. Your weapons will be confiscated upon arrival, as is our custom.”

Becket nodded in acquiescence. Even if they did keep their guns it wouldn't make a difference if it was them versus the entire Fort. “Sounds good to me. How long d’you think it'll be til your buddy comes back?” 

“The cursor left an hour ago to transport the newest slaves bought in auction. He shall return within the hour to retrieve you and your associate.” The decanus replied. He still hadn't so much as twitched since the beginning of the conversation. “You may proceed to the cove. If the auction interests you you are welcomed to make an offer with our slave master, Canyon Runner.” He directed the offer at both of them, much to Arcade's discomfort. Becket simply nodded and began walking, ignoring the reverently spoken “true to Caesar” behind him.

“You gonna be okay goin’ down here?” Becket turned to Arcade. There wasn't any reason to whisper but he did it anyway to preserve some notion of privacy. The withered look he got in reply confirmed it to be a good choice. 

“I've seen much worse than this. Doesn't make it any easier, mind you, but it helps. I'll try and keep a professional detachment, if that's what you're worried about. No breaking down and wailing against the cages.”

Becket frowned. “M’not worried about you'll  _ do, _ Gannon, ‘m worried about you. Just cause you can handle it doesn't mean you should. Dunno how well I'll fare either. Never seen a slave bay before.”

“I appreciate the concern, but if that's the case maybe I'm not the one you need to worry about.” Arcade scoffed but his heart wasn't in it. It was going to be a long trip for both of them.

The path underfoot slowly evened out, chunks of smoothened concrete signifying where old road used to be. On either side of them bunkhouses sprung up looking surprisingly well-kept - likely because they served as the Cove’s barracks. In the distance Becket could hear the soft yipping of a dog followed by gruff snarling and scuffling dirt. Ahead, a small field of tents came into view. Several Legionnaires stood outside in clumped up groups that eyed him tensely. 

They turned right when the road forked, one direction heading further into the tents while the other lead to the main office and docks. Further up, the auction platform glittered in the sunlight. Half of it was wet with blood.

Some part of him expected it to be clinical. Professional. Wham bam here’s-your-money-splam. The way the Decanus talked about it, so casual, almost flippant, made it seem  _ mundane.  _ The Legion treated it like a fact of life - as if ‘profligates’ were pitiful because they didn't understand such basic facet of human nature. He expected to see a sanitized version of slavery; business first, not the cold blooded nightmares described by Boone. Not the auction platform covered in viscera and child-sized stains. 

It tugged at something in him he didn’t feel often. It wasn’t like he was a great role model of morality himself - he took too much pleasure and satisfaction in ending other’s lives - but kicking someone while they’re down always left a bad taste in his mouth. If you’re gonna kill someone, do it. Do it fast or slow or however you like, but do it after a good fight and after you’ve taken a few hits yourself. 

To the platform’s side were two tents, one with an opened front and the other closed off to the public. Chairs were scattered alongside it, seemingly abandoned. For a minute it looked like an auction hadn’t happened at all until someone came through the tent flap. A brief glance inside revealed several dirt covered faces within bracketed by sun toned Legionnaires. A doctor, if you could call him that, stepped out. His lab coat looked like he’d been misted with blood. The slave doctor looked up from his clipboard, scowled at them, then retreated into the enclosure almost immediately. Becket and Arcade exchanged looks. 

Arcade grimaced.“Not the friendly type, apparently.”

“Apparently.” His own lips were drawn down, distracted. The faces within were already gone. “Let’s find us somewhere shady to sit, huh?”

Running horizontal to the platform was the main office, which looked like it’d seen better days. The sides were covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime and topped off with graffiti and a few unidentifiable stains. Sand pushed up the sides in a desperate climb that just begged to be disturbed - just looking at it made Becket itch to kick it all down. Nestled against it all was a splintery-looking bench. They moved for it quickly before any more slavers lurched out of the woodwork to greet them.

Two pounds worth of sand seemed to fly off once they sat and for a moment it seemed as if the whole thing was going to fall apart. Apparently the Legion didn’t sit much in their spare time. 

“Y’think their ferrymen was actually busy or is it just another scheme to make us squirm?” Becket asked, throwing his pack onto the ground without grace. It sent more sand into the air. 

“It’s likely a mix of both. I doubt Caesar wants us held back for any extended amount of time, but he is a fan of theatrics. It would make sense for him to orchestrate extra tension leading up to our visit.” 

“Careful now, wouldn’t want any of ‘em hearing you say that. They all seem a tad enthusiastic about this set up.”

“I’ll have to play the damsel in distress, in that case. They can’t hurt me as long as I’m hiding behind you.” Arcade smiled. He set his own pack down and reclined on the bench. The air was rippling around them in the heat, a constant mirage that hurt his eyes, but the stone behind them was blessedly cool to the touch. Becket shifted, bringing one foot up to curl under him.

Becket’s brows raised, his eyes hands coming up in mock surrender.“Whoa now, then I’m the one gettin’ shot. You gonna play nursemaid after that damsel business is done? Can’t say I’ve never stitched myself up before, but it sure is easier when someone else is holdin’ the needle.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve put you back together.” Arcade shrugged. “Not that you’d be getting shot anyway. As long as you have that medallion you might as well be Nerio.”

His face scrunched together. “Neri-who?”

“Nerio. She was a consort to Mars - the God Caesar claims as his ‘father’. You’re both an investment and potential ally for him, now.”

“Well damn, Arcade, you’re certainly well-versed in all that mumbo jumbo. Where’d you hear about all this?” Becket turned completely now, nibbling on his nails. He knew bits and pieces about the Legion and what they believed in, but nobody ever seemed to know where it all came from. What the hell ‘ave’ and ‘Mars’ meant or why they got so finicky about their weapons and drugs. When he first stumbled upon Vulpes in Nipton he’d thought they were cultists and that’s why they dressed in fur and set up the crucifixes. Not like he had any better answers as to why men in skins were dancin’ around burning bodies. 

“I read about it. While I was growing up and during my time with the Followers the materials showed up here and there. After awhile it all began to sink in. It’s a good language if you can get past the way the Legion uses it.” The doctor looked back at him, pausing for a moment. “I could teach you some of it, if you’d like. Might be useful if you plan on staying in the Mojave.”

There was a beat of silence. Becket grinned. “Dunno how good of a student I’d be, but hell, it couldn’t hurt.” He tapped his temple. “Need to exercise this thing anyways.”

“You certainly knock it around enough. Sometimes I wonder if you aren’t radiated to the point of self-healing.”

His foot was numb now and immune to the prickly wood poking through his jeans. Despite everything around them, it was the most comfortable he’d felt all day. “If I start seeing any extra toes I’ll let ya know.”

Arcade huffed. As tall as he was, the man had to hunch over in order to stay in the shade. His contorted posture forced him to constantly shift back and forth and it was obvious he was getting fed up with it. Becket didn’t envy him. Although he was comfy, it was undeniably hard to sit still knowing where they were. Apparently, it wasn’t uncomfortable enough because at that moment Arcade cleared his throat and looked at him with squinting eyes. His glasses were smudged and Becket resisted the urge to reach over and clean them. 

“While we’re on the topic of bodies, this seems like a good time to dive into an awkward conversation - regarding last night. Unless you’d prefer to repress and move on. In that case, it’s one of my finest skills.” Arcade’s hands were clasped together loosely, his fingers rubbing into the stiff joints. 

Ah. That conversation. Becket sighed and sat up straight. “Yeah, sorry you had’ta see that. Kinda forgot about the door.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” His own words seeming to register, Arcade stiffened and shook his head. “Not, ah, not you. The situation. You’d be surprised how little modesty Freeside inspires in its residents. I’ve had my fair share of coitus interruptus.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. I think the Wrangler has corners built in for that specific reason.” He smirked. Corners he himself used more than once. “But hey, it’s all in the past.”

“Well, that’s good to know. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to… be a problem.” The words fell out awkwardly, as if Arcade didn’t really know how he wanted to finish the sentence. 

Becket shook his head.“S’all good.” 

Another pause, then a deep breath.. 

“I didn’t expect Ex-NCR.” Arcade rolled his shoulders, a little smile on his face. Becket couldn’t hold back the harsh bark of laughter that bubbled up. 

“Why not? Soldier boys are fun.”

“They’re so… quiet.” He frowned. “Filled to the brim with repressed enthusiasm, yeah, but I prefer more from my partners than a few grunts. You seem like you’d prefer the wild ones.”

“‘Wild’, huh?” Becket tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes against the harsh sunlight and smiling. “He isn’t as quiet as you think,”

“Oh god,” Arcade cringed. “Please, no details. I’ll never be able to visit Novac again.”

“I’ll put a bell on so you know when to run.” 

The Decanus from earlier, Severus, walked by then. He gave them a curt nod of acknowledgement but otherwise said nothing as he crossed the road and walked towards the auction area. The medic tent opened again - no faces inside, this time - and welcomed him in silently. It seemed like the camp was finally waking up. 

All around them there was movement. Legionnaires were dragging crates and duffle bags, the smell of herbs was a thick cloud in the air. Someone was throwing together antivenom and healing powder beside the fire pit. Behind him and Arcade, the soft buzz of a ham radio echoed through the office walls. They were setting up for the evening, most likely, and calling back any lingering squads.

“Hope we're moved on before they start inviting us to dinner.” Becket grumbled. As hungry as he was it seemed like a bad idea to sit in a circle of recruits and stiff necked veterans. 

“Lady luck doesn't seem inclined towards us.” Arcade nudged him, gesturing towards Severus and the approaching slave doctor.

“Ave, Courier.” The Decanus nodded towards Becket. “I believe there is something you can help us with. You will be compensated for your efforts, of course, and have Caesar’s gratitude.”

He shifted, feeling uncomfortable. Following House’s plan was one thing, doin’ Caesar personal favors was another. “Uh, what’dya have in mind?” 

“One of our slaves is ill. The buyer will arrive tomorrow morning to collect, but if she is dead then our deal is rendered moot. I was told your companion is a doctor. Members of the Legion are forbidden from your medicines but our slaves remain the exception. They must be healthy enough to travel.” The doctor handed Severus his clipboard. He didn’t looked pleased about the situation being taken out of his hands. The papers were a mess of notes spewed across in chicken scratch, littered with x’s and crossed out fragments of latin. It might as well been a puzzle to Becket, who took it and looked between the awful thing and Arcade.

“I don’t…? Gimme a moment, will ya?” Becket frowned and turned his back to the two, instead huddling with Arcade a few feet away. “What do you think?”

“I think they’re being genuine. The Legion cares about it’s business reputation enough to ask for help.” Arcade answered. He’d taken the clipboard and began to squint. “They don’t know much about medicine.”

“Yeah, I got that impression. But what about you? Do you, uh, wanna go look? At her?”

Whatever irritation Arcade felt about the doctor’s handwriting took a sharp turn, instead replaced by a look of resolve. “If it means making her life easier, yes.” Becket didn’t have anything to say to that so he simply turned back towards the two Legionnaires. 

“He’ll take a look. Lead the way.”

The slave doctor puffed out his chest and lead the way. Severus left them to it, apparently needed elsewhere. When they reached the tent Becket’s earlier suspicions were confirmed - all the other slaves had been moved. How or where, he didn’t know. They must’ve gone out the back of the  tent. The inside reeked of mildew and the acrid tang of crushed xander root, enough so that Becket gagged upon entry. It was a harsh contrast against the clean and sterile facilities the Followers had in Freeside. 

The room itself was nearly spartan, housing only a stained exam table, a tool stand and a few chairs. Atop the table was a small girl who looked around five. She was staring at her knees and didn’t look up when they came in. Becket froze in the entryway, stiff, while Arcade moved around him and towards the tool table seemingly unfazed. The slave doctor abandoned them once the flap closed and walked off with a scowl on his face. 

Arcade began plucking tools off the table in precise movements. A stethoscope, reflex hammer, depressors… In the back of his mind Becket wondered how he knew what they were called. The only thing he knew about medicine was how to stitch himself up and inject chems. It was a passing thought, though. His focus was on the kid. 

Arcade was slipping on his stethoscope. The motions broke his transfixion. “What are you doing?”

“Starting the examination. What else?” He didn’t look up either. 

“You can’t just-” His voice boomed in the small enclosure and the kid flinched from the sound. It was a stutter-stop motion, awkward and suppressed, that broadcasted a reticent survival instinct. The jerky movement made him shrink in on himself, ashamed. It felt like wasps in his lungs, vibrating under his skin in distress and the more he looked the worse it got. Becket stared at the dust covered girl and felt like he was seeing two people at once. An overwhelming sense of  _ wrong _ was pervading through his mind. She looked so,  _ so _ familiar. But not. Something was off, not quite like the original. Like sand through his fingers. 

He slid to Arcade’s side and spoke in harsh whispers. “She’s a  _ kid,  _ Arcade. We can’t leave her. You- we can’t sit here and play doctor.”

Sensing his despair, Arcade looked up with a warring expression. “We can’t take her either, Becket.”

“Why the hell not?” He snarled, his eyes on her. Sequestered under all the dirt was a small wisp of a girl, bird boned and pale. Her hair was limp, combed out for appearances, and fell across her face in a frazzled curtain. Looking at the finer details - clean fingernails, no smell - it was obvious she’d been cleaned up for the auction. Ruffled but unbroken. Temporary, of course - after the buyer returned the Legion wouldn’t have to keep up appearances. 

Arcade's face settled into a leveled stare. "Because even if we did manage to get out of this tent there would still be half a dozen Legionnaires nearby. They'd kill us before we reached the water, Becket."

  
He felt like ripping his hair out. What was it about 'half dead kid' that made Arcade so damn reluctant? "You don't know that. They're not expecting- Half of 'em are asleep! It’s dark out and there's an NCR station nearby-"

“And you don’t think the Legion have eyes on us right now? That they haven’t since the moment we stepped foot in the canyon?” Arcade bit back. The stethoscope was bent in his hand. It was his only visible reaction towards the scenario. “The best thing we can do is make sure she leaves this place healthy.”

Arcade was right. Of course he fucking was. But that didn't stop the disgust warring inside of him. Throughout their whole conversation the kid hadn't looked up, not even once, or given any other indication that she'd understood. He doubted she even knew how to speak. “Healthy enough to get to her new owners, y’mean.”

“Would you prefer she die right here? In this tent?”

His head snapped up. In his peripheral the kid finally looked up at them in question. She had hazel eyes. “Excuse me?”

“If you try to free her now she will die. No ifs. If that's the play you want to make I'll follow you and I'll do my damn best, but we will die, Becket.” Arcade stepped closer to him now, eyes going soft. He stooped a little so they were leveled and set a gentle hand on Becket’s shoulder. Seeing the incoming motion, Becket thought it would feel cagey against his skin. Instead it was an anchor. “You can't save them all. Trust me, I know.”

Becket looked over his shoulder and at the girl. So familiar. He shut his eyes against the image and leaned into Arcade's chest with a shuddering sigh. “Fuck.” He whispered. “It's fucked up, y’know?”

“I know.”

He stayed for the rest of the checkup even after Arcade's constant queries. He didn't think he could handle being alone with Severus right now. So he sat in the corner of the tent and watched Arcade go through the motions one by one with affability of an angel. By the end of it the girl even seemed to relax, no longer curling in on herself. Arcade even got her to smile when he began tapping her knees to test the reflex - a shocked ‘o’ gracing her youthful features. The sight loosened something in all of them and granted a temporary reprieve from the oppressive atmosphere.

“It looks like pneumonia. Treatable if you know what to look for.” Arcade decided. He'd crossed out half the things written on the clipboard and began his own notes on the second page. There was a very good chance no one there knew how to treat it, a concern he voiced bitterly, so he'd written down detailed instructions. 

At the declaration Becket lurched out of the chair and walked over. “Anything else? Feet, throat, head..?”

“Fatigue. A little dehydration. Everything you'd expect given…” He trailed off. Given the fact she was a slave. Becket nodded. With a sigh Arcade set down the clipboard. “That's it then. We should probably find that Decanus before he has us doing anything else.”

“Yeah.” Becket murmured in reply. The kid was staring at him again. She'd started halfway through the checkup and never looked away when he stared back. Whether she spoke or not there was something strong kicking around in her mind. Once she perked up her gaze became dissecting, flickering rapidly in short seconds before locking onto some aspect of him or Arcade. Becket followed suit. At the moment he was looking at her ears. Looking for… Something. 

“You ready?” Arcade had already gathered his things up. He wasn't looking at her anymore. Probably, Becket suspected, because when he did he only saw the different ways she'd be hurt in the coming years. 

Becket stood with him but the conflicting feeling lingered. “Yeah.”

He'd taken a single step before it bubbled out. “Wait, Arcade-”

Halfway out the tent, Arcade stopped immediately and looked back with a tense expression. Becket fumbled, jerking his head back at the girl. “Can- did you, ah, did’ya check her ears?”

The peculiarities of the question didn't escape Arcade. His brows knit together in confusion. He stepped back into the tent. “Her… Ears?

“Yeah!” Becket frowned. “Her ears.”

“No…?” There was a tense moment where the three of them stood in silence. Then Arcade tilted his head. “Is that something you've done before?”

At a loss for words, he went with the truth. “I don't know. It just feels important. Check for me, please?”

He did, even allowing Becket to come over and see for himself that there was no damage. Every fold and dip was unmarred by knife or disease. It didn't settle him, but it did dissuade the notion that she was hurt there. It frustrated him to have these things pop out of nowhere, unwanted and unappreciated. 

Neither of them said goodbye to her. If Arcade hadn't led him out physically Becket might not have left.

***

True to expectation, they found Severus near the docks speaking to the newly arrived cursor. He wasn’t as tall as Arcade, Becket hadn’t met anyone who was, but he still loomed over the smaller Decanus. The two looked up as Becket approached and he noted the splintering boat tied to the docks behind them, trying not to frown. It must be sturdy, he thought, if it had been carrying slaves barely an hour prior.

“Ave, Courier. This is the Cursor Lucullus. As soon as you are ready he will take you to our main encampment. I take it the situation in the medical tents has been resolved to the best of your abilities?” Severus asked. His blithe tone made it hard to decide whether the inquiry was just a another way to get under their skin or if he simply considered it mundane. 

“It’s done. We’ll leave now.” 

***

He hadn’t looked at them in awhile. Too many emotions oozed out once he set to it thoroughly. Curiosity. Anger. Emasculation. More had been carved in the time since he’d left Goodsprings, seven total, and he knew every one. Sometimes they cut through others he didn’t remember getting. The ones from Before. The Wrangler was the only safe place he’d been able to eyeball them proper. After a week  he’d sat down with an untouched bourbon on the bathroom tiles, naked, running his fingers down the lot of ‘em. 

Scars have a funny way of bringing back memories, even for an amnesiac. Nothing particularly helpful, mind you, but memories nonetheless. There was a bullet’s starburst on his left thigh he remembered getting when he was young. The raised edges chafed against any pants he wore, no matter how loose the material, and it made him think it healed wrong. The only other indication was the puckered skin, an odd off-color that turned bone white when pressed down on. He’d stolen something to earn it. Food, his gut told him. The hurt didn’t make him feel guilty. Food for someone else. 

The one above his eye still ached sometimes. Touching didn’t do much besides remind him of Doc Mitchell and the smell of dirt. 

There were a few interesting ones he often came back to. A hook shape that cut across his back in wide arcs - a botched flaying job? - one that spread like splintering roots from his right palm - a stab line in his calf. On one hand he could make up any story he pleased to justify them, on the other he’d never know who marked him. Or why he’d marked himself. 

The name on his ankle, Nel, wasn’t one he looked at often. It was one of the few memories to be completely obliterated by Benny’s 9mm. It didn’t matter how many Mentats he chewed or how viciously he rubbed it. Not a speck of familiarity could be coaxed out. He considered cutting it off, once. Slicing the whole thing off his body so it couldn’t sit so smugly anymore. Boone was the one to turn him against it. 

“It won’t make you feel better. You’ll just have an uglier leg.”

That night the two of them drank through his entire liquor collection. 

He hadn’t thought about it in awhile, really. His boots and BDU’s usually covered it up nice and tidy while they went on jobs. The only reason he thought about it now was because his bare feet crossed over one another in the Cursor’s boat and left it visible. 

Neither him or Arcade had wanted to remove their shoes, even if it meant getting soggy socks, but Lucullus reminded them it was a part of the full body search they’d experience at the Fort anyways and that they might as well get it over with and be dry in the meantime. Begrudgingly, they agreed and soon enough Arcade’s feet were curled under him in a weak attempt to stay warm. He declined Becket’s offer of a footrub without humor. 

It wasn’t that hard to tell when Arcade noticed the name himself. Tiny pinpricks tickled down Becket’s back until he finally gave in and met Arcade’s stare with his own. The good doctor simply raised a brow before turning to give him some privacy. Becket scoffed. 

“You don’t gotta pretend like you didn’t see it, Gannon.” Lucullus was at the head of the boat and didn’t seem to hear him over the sound of splashing water. 

Arcade shrugged. “I had no intentions of pretending. I’m a terrible actor- could never get the emotions down. It just seemed like you wanted some privacy.”

“Not much to privatize when you know jack shit yourself.”

Becket cringed as soon as he said it, irritated by the petulant tone in his own voice. Arcade didn’t seem phased and turned to bracket him against the boat’s corner. “Can I see?”

“Knock yourself out.” He mumbled, reclining back as much as he could manage. It put some distance between him and Arcade’s face, at least. “Dunno why you’d want to, though.”

“Caveat emptor.” Arcade murmured, quietly enough that Becket almost didn’t catch it. He scooted closer and wrapped one delicate hand over Becket’s ankle while the other moved over the scarring itself. His hands were warm but not clammy, applying a gentle pressure to his leg that made Becket want to hold them. Stifling the urge, he shifted to fiddle with his fingernails. 

“Can’t speak in tongues until you give me those lessons you promised.” He tried to laugh. Arcade pressed his thumb down against the N.

“Is this what House promised?”

House promised a lot of things - answers to questions he didn’t know he had - but something in him whispered a single truth:  _ no one knows Nel. _

“Something along those lines.” Is what he said instead.

***

The Praetorian who frisked him had rough hands and smelled like leather. His stubble scratched against Becket’s neck when he leaned in to palm his flanks and underarms, a hair too slowly, too heavily. A cloying incense was burning somewhere inside of the tent, making its way out in pronounced puffs every time someone drew the flap back to exit. It hit him like a poison. The courtyard’s fires colored the rising smoke and reminded him of a fire Gecko spitting flames. 

The upper tier of the Fort was one draped in opulence. Grand beams stabbed at the night sky and held thick tapestries depicting Mars and the Bull. The dye alone must have cost a fortune. Fires burned and flickered against the secluded officer’s tents, each of varying size and shape. The shadows writhed with slaves who scurried back and forth carrying foods and trinkets to their masters. While the Legion didn’t pamper themselves with chems and tech, they weren’t above enjoying their more rudimentary prizes. Above it all was Caesar’s tent. A series of rooms sewn together and bracketed by stiff-backed Praetorians. 

They’d die for him in an instant. 

Arcade was asked to stay outside while he met with Caesar. His blonde hair glowed in the moonlight and matched the white fabric of his coat. He watched Becket get pat down with narrowed eyes. 

“Alright, profligate, you’re good to go.” He was shoved towards the entrance without further ceremony. He didn’t look at Arcade before slipping in. If things went south Becket didn’t want to know what look might’ve been on his face. 

The inside of the tent was a sea of reds and golds. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen so much pigment in one place before. It was almost overwhelming to look at until he realized he’d styled his own Lucky 38 room in a similar way. Carpets let him from the vestibule and into the center room where moonlight poured from the open ceiling and cast Caesar in an unearthly spotlight. The man held center stage. 

He wasn’t what Becket expected. When Arcade talked about him, mentioned the name Edward Sallow, it sounded like some ex-Follower’s egghead who dressed himself up in someone else’s costume. Not stupid by any means but just another man who got caught up in his own beliefs. Vulpes and the other Legionnaires described him as a god. Strong and ruthless. He was the Son of Mars: the man who forged the blood of eighty six tribes into an army. 

The man sitting before him was neither. He was both. 

Caesar, Edward, Mars: He sat with coiled power. There was no mistaking the sharpness of his eyes or the way he held himself just so in his throne, relaxed enough to boast confidence but firm enough to display control. But there were no bulging muscles or soul wrenching stare. The man who looked at him was old, plain and simple. Crows feet pulled his eyes into narrowed slits that tugged down aging skin. Once defined muscles were rounded off under a thin layer of fat. His skin looked waxy in the light as if he were ill. Without his Praetorians he would be easy pickings for the rest of them. But muscles weren’t Caesar’s only option. His voice was a much better choice.

“So this is the Courier I’ve heard so much about.” His voice boomed in the room and caught the attention of every individual present. 

Becket tiled his head in affirmation. “Seems to be.”

He shifted in his throne. It looked paradoxically comfortable and stiff. “You’ve crossed half the Mojave already. Risen from the dead, I’m told. Not such an easy feat for the average mail man. My frumentarii tell me you’ve even infiltrated the Lucky 38.”

“They told you right. I’ve been real cozy up in the Presidential suit.” 

Caesar leaned forward. His expression was closed off and difficult to read. “And how did you manage that?”

Becket frowned, staring at the man for a moment before breaking the rising tension with a shrug. The casual motion seemed to amuse him. “Right place right time, really. Seems you know a thing about that, too.”

“Oh? And what gave you that impression?”

He kicked a stray thread of carpet. To the side of Caesar was Vulpes, sans the signature animal hood, his lithe body holding itself with confidence. His shadow danced across the walls erratically, flickering up and down in the firelight. The spirit of Nipton was nearby. Becket nodded towards the frumentarii then back at Caesar. “You seemed to know just when to ask for a deal. I assume that’s why you invited me ‘ere? Unless my little antics impressed you that much…?”

Caesar waved a hand dismissively. He reclined back into the throne. “You’re right. I do have an offer for you, one I think will benefit us greatly in the coming days. But the night is old and I don’t have patience for politics once the sun sets. You’ll sleep here tonight and in the morning we’ll discuss everything I have planned for you.”

Becket frowned. “If we could just-”

“Lucius will show you to your tent.” Caesar motioned towards the frumentarii with a limp wrist.            Half a second later he summoned one of his praetorians and began speaking in hushed tones. It was the clearest dismissal Becket had ever received. Sudden or not, when Caesar was done, you were done. The action made him wonder why he didn’t listen to Boone and just shoot the crazy bastard on-sight. He’d killed people for less. 

With as much patience as he could muster Becket exited the tent and took a deep breath of fresh air. A moment later the tent flap opened again and Lucius moved to stand beside him.

“Your tent is this way.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic about being a errand boy but didn’t make any other verbal complaints.

Before following the grizzled Praetorian,  Becket looked around, eyes narrowed, until he spotted Arcade sitting on a rock near the edge of the hill. He looked up when Becket exited the tent and didn’t take long to walk over. 

“What’s going on?”

“We’re havin’ a sleepover.” Becket seethed. He jerked a thumb back at Vulpes and ran a hand down his face, pulling the skin roughly. “He didn’t feel like telling me anything tonight.”

Arcade frowned back at him but didn’t answer. After a moment’s hesitation he nodded. “We’ll sleep and deal with it in the morning.”

“Hmm.”

Their tent was positioned along the edge of the walls in between Caesar’s installment and the rest of the officer’s quarters. It was a decent size, enough for two full grown men to sleep in, and adequately private considering who and where they were. Lucius seemed socially sophisticated enough to realize no one present wanted a conversation, so without added flair he waved towards the entrance and left. 

The fires outside were enough to cast a dim glow through the walls. Inside, the two bedrolls laid on the ground were conjoined by a single foot locker. It was sparse and on the knife’s edge of dirty, but that’s exactly what he’d expected to find. There wouldn’t be much else to do other than lay down and wait for dawn. Arcade tossed their bags down onto the bare strip running between blankets and began toeing his shoes off carefully. The calmness of the action was irritating to see, especially when he himself was feeling so exasperated. 

Becket sighed. “Don’t suppose they’d notice if I went out for a private tour, do you?”

Arcade looked up from where he was crouched and rolled his eyes. “There’s no doubt about it. They’d hand you the keys themselves.”

“You’re awfully mouthy for a political prisoner.” Becket grumbled. He began undoing the various straps of his armor, tossing each piece on the ground before unbuttoning the shirt beneath it to hang open. The fresh air was nice against his skin, even if it wasn’t cool, and taking the armor off shed fifteen pounds of stress from his shoulders. He gracelessly rolled onto his bedroll and huffed into the rough fabric. “They act like we’ll be able to sleep, ha.”

“I’m a doctor, not an adventurer. I have every intention of getting a full night’s rest. By all means, though, feel free to stay up and keep watch over me.” Arcade scoffed. Becket peeked over the fold of his blankets to look at him. He was already laying on his back, eyes closed, body relaxed. The banter was a good enough distraction and he chose to run with it, not really paying attention to where his words went. 

“Aww, damn, Arcade, if you wanted me to stare at you all you had to do was ask.”

The doctor laughed. From this close Becket could see his perfect set of teeth, a peculiarity among wastelanders. “Okay. Consider it an invitation.”

“Done and done. Already stare at you half the time anyways.” 

At that, Arcade cracked open one eye to glance at him. A smirk curled his features into something demure. “I know.”

Becket made a noncommittal huff and shoved his face back into the bedroll. It wasn’t the best place to start flirting up his companion. He wasn’t even sure if Arcade was serious or simply indulging him, so he dropped it at that. The two of them laid in silence, listening to the ambience around them half mindedly, and despite how twitchy he felt, Becket even dozed off for a minute. 

It wasn’t just his agitation that made relaxing so difficult. It was all the things he had to accomplish rapidly swarming together under a single date. Talk to Caesar, do what he wants. Find the chip, steal it for House. Don’t kill Caesar. Or maybe do? Get out of the Fort. Make it back to New Vegas. Avoid the Fiends. It was a shitshow of scheming and sneaking that went against every facet of his personality. If it were any other prize House offered he would’ve refused point blank on principal alone. But some things were more important than personal discomfort.

Their temporary reprieve was ruined a moment later when a group of obnoxious Legionnaires passed by their tent. The younger recruits droned on, speaking loudly while they horsed  around with each other. As soon as the disruption passed Becket huffed out a winded groan and rolled over onto his back. Arcade scoffed, still awake and sounding very relaxed. 

“Having some trouble, Becket?”

“Told you I wouldn’t be able to sleep.” He whined. “This place is damn ridiculous. Can’t even bring in a few drinks to knock myself out.” It was often enough he resorted to liquor. Some nights it was the only way to breathe.

“Do something distracting.” Arcade murmured. 

“I can only count so many sheep before losing my damn mind.” He never understood why people used that phrase. He tried it out, before, but it only took him further from sleep. It was too mathematical and he always ended up fighting against his consciousness so he could make it to the next hundred. He didn’t even know what a sheep looked like. It was just another useless train of thought that’d keep him up til dawn.

Beside him, Arcade still hadn’t moved from his position in the past forty minutes. “Find another way, then.”

“Like what?” Becket sighed. Arcade arched, cracking his back before sliding back down into a relaxed line. He may not have been actively sleeping but at least the tension had bled from his body. One eye opened into a slit, peering over at him. When he answered it was nonchalant, almost a sigh.

“Touch yourself.”

Becket’s face pinched together in confusion. He must have misheard… But when Arcade continued to look at him, blinking slowly, his seriousness became apparent. When the recognition hit it was a shot of pleasure in his gut. “What- oh.” Arcade closed his eye again but the sharpness of his attention lingered.. He didn’t have to make contact for Becket to feel the focus burning into his skin. Of all things he expected to pop outta Arcade’s mouth, a direct proposition was right below ‘energy weapons are stupid’. At a loss for words, Becket looked at the ceiling of the tent.”Not much privacy in a tent.”

“You can pretend like I’m not here.” Came Arcade’s airy reply. 

“Don’t wanna keep you up…” He murmured back. 

“By all means, don’t let me stop you.”

Any other time he would’ve been turned off by a dust covered tent and thin bedroll. He wasn’t picky about where he stopped to jerk off, no man could be, but he admitted to being pampered since staying at the Wrangler. He prefered to lay himself out on a mattress and take things slow. But right about then, pinned under the weight of Arcade’s offer, the dirt and grime just fueled the spontaneity of it all. 

He thought about it for a minute. It’s not like Arcade was  _ wrong _ . He  _ would _ fall asleep as soon as he finished. But that was a big step up from the casual camaraderie they had between them. It was one thing to call each other handsome and another to masturbate less than two feet away in an enclosed room.

The soft jingles of his belt buckle were obscenely loud. He didn’t look at Arcade while he fumbled with the worn leather and slipped it through his pant loops. The belt was tossed aside, another unmistakable clink, and a moment later he pushed the BDU’s down under the swell of his ass. Just enough so he could see the front of his briefs. There wasn’t much of a swell yet - he wasn’t even half hard - but the simple act of undressing was enough to get the blood flowing. That and Arcade. 

Taking a breath, he reached down to palm himself slowly through the thin fabric. It was a dull sensation, warm and ticklish, and he felt himself throb at the sudden attention. A pleased sigh slipped past his lips. He relaxed back onto the bedroll and closed his eyes to think.

The girl he’d had back in Freeside - the trader’s daughter. He thought back to the way her soft skin indented under his hands, how it felt wrapped around his face, tensed and shivering. She’d been so sensitive. So unbelievably wet when he’d slipped a few fingers in. Yeah, that was doin’ it for him. He squeezed his filling cock a little harder, it’s shape beginning to fill out against the grey cotton. 

His attention drifted. The girl’s long hair shifted shorter and shorter, her form filling out into something firm. The setting changed, too, now back in his motel room at the Dino-D-Lite motel. In his mind’s eye, Arcade was splayed across the bed in all his glory. He could only imagine how he looked under all those layers; thin but muscled, lithe, all ivory and freckled. Not an inch of him submissive despite his nakedness. 

He’d thought about it before - how Arcade was in bed. If he liked to be fucked or if he preferred to be the one taking his partner apart. Would he be gentle or rough? His dexterous surgeon’s fingers curling inside, knowing just where to flick, knowing exactly how to take someone apart. Becket wanted it rough. A repressed guy like Arcade would probably drill him into the bed so hard his legs would go numb. 

Thinking about it pulled him straight from half mast to throbbing. The lazy pawing against his groin started to feel better and sharper all at once. His motions picked up force, grinding his the heel of his palm into his cock and trying not to buck up into the pressure. His hand brushed up and down the length in a half grip that poorly mimicked stroking, a tease. The ache between his legs made his fingers twitch, knowing they should be there pressing into him. Just thinking about it, about how he’d still be a little relaxed from the night prior, made him moan weakly.

“Fuck.” Becket breathed. His pulse echoed in his ears and he hadn’t even gotten his dick out.

“Problems?” Arcade mused. Becket jerked his hand away, unable to fight the instinct. He turned his head to look at the man next to him who was  _ not  _ sleeping. Arcade was turned on his side, head propped up by a bent arm, staring at him and his twitching cock with unabashed interest.

“Uh..” He shrugged, hand still awkwardly hovering. “Nah ‘m doing good.”

The doctor shifted, tilted his head in the direction of Becket’s crotch. “You’re going to ruin your clothes.”

There was already a wet patch spreading from where precum seeped lazily. Something it did often, he noted. All the groping he’d done had only managed to spread it around more.  Becket looked from it to Arcade. “Just one piece.” The briefs clung to his dick lewdly in a sad attempt at modesty.

Arcade shook his head, a pragmatic look on his face.“The Mojave lacks an overabundance of underwear, Becket. If you ruin yours now you’ll have to go without tomorrow when you’re sat across from Caesar and all his twitchy Praetorians.”

It was a weak excuse. But that was the point of it; something thin enough to keep up the playful facade while also giving themselves a little breathing room. It worked just fine for him - not like he was looking for reasons to  _ not  _ whip his cock out. 

“Can’t argue against that.” He muttered, already tilting his hips up to slide the material down his legs. Warm air rushed over him and despite the temperature his skin prickled into goosebumps. His pants and briefs were kicked off into an abandoned pile at the foot of the bedroll, forgotten almost immediately as his eyes moved hesitantly between Arcade and his own groin. The doctor’s eyes looked like black marbles in the low light, his expression lax and coquettish. He brazenly nodded towards Becket’s flushed member. 

“Feel free to continue. Your clothing’s purity is safe and sound.”

Becket grunted, looking away. He propped himself up on one elbow, the horizontal position becoming increasingly frustrating. His cock lay flushed and agitated, resting along the crease of his thigh and stomach. It glistened in the light and the sight made him flush happily. Using his free hand, Becket held it loosely and smeared the wetness across his head in heavy strokes. The spongy tissue bloomed a dark red under his teasing thumb. 

It was wet enough that he didn’t need to lick his palm before starting at the base and giving it the first real stroke of the night. Pleasure zipped up his spine like a firework. The tent slowly filled with semi-stifled noises. The motions made a squelching sound as he picked up the pace, watching himself fuck up into the ring of his hand and spread more teardrops of cum across his hand. 

The arm propping him up began to ache from the weight, so, somewhat irritated, he laid back down and focused on rolling his hips upward. With a newly freed hand, he put it to use by reaching up and scratching across his nipples lightly. The action made him flush darker as they pebbled up, aching somewhat as he continued to switch between the two. 

On the other side of the tent he heard clothes rustling. The idea of Arcade watching him - his Arcade - Mr. ‘Touch-Yourself’ Gannon - was something out of a wet dream. His eyes remained squeezed shut so he could conjure up the image in his head. Arcade next to him getting all hot and bothered… The thought made him whine low in his throat. 

Becket hadn’t met anyone quite like him. Arcade had a look about him, something downright odd. He looked too tall, too polished. His hair was always clean and sun-light bright.  He could talk for hours and make a man feel like he had a brain the size of a corn kernel. And every chance he got, that damn doctor hid himself under layers upon layers. Becket had only seen him shirtless once, and Jesus if that hadn’t been a sight. He’d been expecting healthy (because what part of Arcade  _ wasn’t? _ ) but it was more than that. Lean muscles that curved along his back and biceps like a shield. He could take down a couple of junkies no problem. 

Becket’s brain prickled at the thought, zeroing in on the memory. Smooth skin, hands that could stitch a man up just as quick as they could shoot him. 

He forced his hips down and stopped his hand, squeezing the base of his cock to stop things from ending too quick. He didn’t usually have such a hair trigger, but in all honestly it’d been awhile since he’d taken time with himself. Manny was nice, but no one knew how to touch him better than himself. 

There was more shuffling and it was loud enough to make him open his eyes. Arcade abandoned his lab coat and left it on his bedroll across the tent. The rustling sound came from him moving across the thin divider to recline next to Becket. The close proximity made him uncomfortable, more so since Arcade was still fully clothed. But the tension dissolved quickly when Arcade scoffed and reached across with one hand, batting Becket’s own aside to take hold of his cock. Arcade leaned over him, half covering his body, and began to stroke slowly.

Arcade’s palm was dry and moved across him roughly. It was the perfect mix, his own hand had almost been too wet, not creating enough friction to grind and sliding too softly against his aching skin. He stared up at Arcade with lidded eyes, biting his lip to stop any embarrassing sounds from pouring out. His stare wasn’t returned, though, and it seemed like Arcade was just as focused on his cock as he had been earlier. He squeezed and torqued his wrist in flowing motions, following the cues Becket unknowingly gave him as he bucked up and panted harshly. 

He paused every once and awhile to rub the head and massage the skin between his fingers to force more precum out. It was a sharper sensation and made him writhe on the bedroll, gasping in harsh breaths before Arcade went back to the base. 

It was Arcade’s smell that set him off. Sweat, yucca, riverwater; all the running around they’d done that day and the bastard still smelled  _ good _ . Becket grabbed him by collar and tugged him down, close enough that Becket could mouth sloppily along his neck and taste skin. The desperation in the act made Arcade laugh. The sound reverberated into his ear and Becket moaned when he realized he could finally hear Arcade’s own quiet breathing. 

The feeling in his gut was reaching a peak and he started to buck up in jack-rabbit thrusts. Arcade tucked his head closer and spoke directly into his ear. “Feels like you’re getting close now. You feel it, Becket?”

The hand on his cock slowed. Becket let out a devastated groan. “You know I am, you bastard. Please, ah, Christ Almighty Arcade don’t stop.”

“Hmm. Since you asked so nicely.” And just like that the pace picked back up tenfold. The feeling began to surge through him like a flood. His hand shot up and pinched a swollen nipple between two fingers, a sweet twitch of pain that coupled sweetly with the pulsing grip Arcade had on him. “Come on,” Arcade urged in his ear. He followed the command with a nip to the fleshy skin of his lobe. Becket gasped brokenly, eyes rolling as his orgasm swept through him. 

It was a wave that made him go limp and twitchy with pleasure, his hips pumping weakly. Arcade stroked him through it all, murmuring in his ear the whole while until oversensitivity made Becket grunt in discomfort. His cum was dripping down Arcade hand and had striped his abdomen in warm ribbons. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, uncurling himself from Arcade to lay back down on the bedroll. His throat felt dry and his head buzzed with the beginnings of a headache. Arcade smirked down at him and licked the cum from his fingers lazily. The sight almost made Becket want to go again. Almost. But it was someone else’s turn. 

He forced himself to sit up, moving towards Arcade’s fly with clumsy hands, but pale fingers folded over his. He looked up at Arcade, a bit shunted that he wasn’t being allowed to return the favor. Arcade just shook his head and smiled. His hair was pleasantly frazzled, making him look years younger. It was a style Becket really wanted to look up on while he sucked his cock. 

Arcade noticed his irritation and laughed again. His face was flushed but pleased. No hints of resentment hid around the corner. “Not now. I like to wait it out longer than most. I’ll let you know when you’re needed.” 

“Shit, after that you can let me know anytime.” Becket gave him a dopey grin and grabbed a spare cloth from his bag to wipe the rest of the mess off. It only took a minute, but once it was done he felt the ache in his body. “You were right. I am all tuckered out.”

The ‘I told you so’ went unsaid between them while Arcade grabbed his bedroll and dragged it next to Becket’s.

***

He should’ve known it would all go to shit after something like that. The moment he set his foot on stable ground it was all over - the world knew it had to do something to fuck with him before things got too comfortable. 

It was his fault, really, in the grand scheme of things. You leave too many loose ends, make too many assumptions, and eventually they’ll all start to crawl out of the dirt like cockroaches. He should have known not to trust himself. Just because you felt the knife go in doesn’t mean it did. Going on a job alone is a bad idea when you’re missing a chunk of your brain. No one left to doublecheck your work. 

You can know every human flaw in the book and it doesn’t mean shit if you can’t see it in yourself. Psycho, Arcade would tell him later, can cause seizures. Amnesia, if you take enough of it. He took a lot of it when he and Boone ran around.

“By all rights, he’s yours to do with as you wish.” 

It made him wonder how many other loose ends were out there, just waiting to crawl up his legs. 

The sunburst scar above his brow burned. The headache that’d been brewing all night rose in a crescendo of white noise. Maybe it was the Mojave’s own funny sense of justice. To become a ghost you gotta kill one. 

His face was caked in a layer of dirt and blood, suit hanging limply from his shoulders, barely concealing layers of waxy skin. Curled low on the ground, he should have looked like any other slave. 

When he saw Maria in Becket’s holster, Benny smiled. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there it is,,, woah boy,,, thought i abandoned this didn't you? (,: I'm sorry for such a massive delay, the last few months have been crazy for me so it's been a slow burn to write this. To make up for that I tried making it longer than the usual chapters. I also wanted to ask: would you guys prefer me to make longer chapters? Or continue posting ones around 2-3k? It definitely won't take as long as this one did, of course, but could take more time than the smaller ones. Lemme know!
> 
> caveat emptor - "let the buyer beware" -- the purchaser is responsible for checking whether the goods suit his needs.


	9. Salted Earth

Salted Earth

“ Revenge... is like a rolling stone, which, when a man hath forced up a hill, will return upon him with a greater violence, and break those bones whose sinews gave it motion.”

\- Jeremy Taylor

Becket left the tent. 

To anyone else it looked like an overwhelmed man fleeing the scene to panic and consider his options. Overwhelmed was a poor adjective; it seemed juvenile in comparison to the numb rage blanketing his mind. Amongst all the uncertainties in his life, all the “I don’t know”s and “can’t remember”s, there were two things Becket knew were true. One: He’d survived a bullet to the brains and woken in Goodsprings. Two: Benny Gecko’s throat was slashed to ribbons in the presidential suite of the Top’s casino. 

It was a memory he’d replayed over and over again on cold nights. How he’d gripped the blade too eagerly and cut his own hand instead of Benny’s (the scar was there to prove it), how Benny’s blood gushed between his fingers like tar. The acrid smell of stale smoke forever encased in the Presidential Suite’s carpets. His own blood gushing over the porcelain sink, riddled with chems. 

It was his great revenge; the most unsatisfying thing he’d ever done. No matter how much he cut or yelled it never made a difference. Blood and death couldn't - wouldn’t - revive a dead man. Benny’s death was a plague in his mind. A stain on his new life. It meant nothing. Fixed nothing. But damn if it hadn't been necessary. He needed to do it, to avenge the Becket Benny killed that night in Goodsprings. 

And he remembered every detail. There were no hazy gaps or missing details. The reality of that night was never questioned in his mind. Why would it be? 

He killed Benny. He did. 

He did. 

The praetorians stationed outside the tent stiffened at his brisk exit. One of them quickly ducked inside, checking to see if they should be dragging him back or not. The answer must have been ‘no’ because the guard simply returned to his station and scowled. Lucky for them. They would’ve been shot the moment they laid hands on him. 

He needed a moment, and if anyone wanted to join the pity party they would pay the price.

The sunburst scar throbbed in phantom pain, the first remnants of a migraine beginning to fan out across his skull. The siren call of Med-X prickled his skin - the half empty bottles were stored halfway across the camp at the docks.  _ “No chems”  _ the gate guard had said. Barbaric fuckers, he thought to himself. By year’s end half the Legion would die of infection. 

Somewhere nearby the stench of slaughtered brahmin wafted through the air in a sickening miasma. He skidded to a halt at the edge of Caesar's hill, if it could even be called that, and looked down at the ant-like formation of recruits setting off for patrol. Off they went into the Mojave, young and red faced, to kill and rape and maim for the Bull.

His hands twitched at his sides, anxious to fiddle and break, until he resorted to pulling strings from the fraying edges of his shirt. 

It never took much to upset him - Cottonwood Cove was evidence enough - but fear was something different. Rare was the time when Becket felt like he couldn't find a way out. The Mojave wasn't  _ scary _ , per say, just a bitch to live in. Once you got over the car sized lizards and flakey ghouls it was just a matter of being smart. Either of you were, and lived, or you weren't and ended up roasted, served and eaten over some raider’s fire pit. Whether or not that happened was in your hands. You could always count on yourself.

Except for now, apparently. What else did he miss? What else was just a figment of his imagination? Just some hyper realistic fantasy he'd've sworn by any other day? People? Places? 

Was House real? The Lucky 38? Boone? If he was imagining things he'd never done who was to say he wasn't forgetting the things he had? 

Arcade had to be real. The thought stole his breath for a moment. Rapidly, he flipped back through his memories, to every time they'd been together. Arcade’s sunburnt freckles. His unnatural tallness. The cute way his mouth curved when he said something witty. He'd seen Arcade talk to people. They acknowledged him, acknowledged conversations between Arcade, Becket and themselves. But what if they weren't real either? How far did it go? How many layers were there to it all?

It didn't take a doctor to know bullets didn't mix with brains, and that ‘breathing’ doesn't necessarily mean ‘alive’. 

Arcade's shoes crunched in the gravel, slow but determined in their approach. Like cornering a wounded animal, he kept himself loose and ready to duck just in case the courier startled and decided to swing. Becket was taut as a bowstring, standing on the edge with hands on his hips in a mockery of causality. 

“Becket.”

“He was  _ dead _ , Arcade.” The words poured out of his mouth almost immediately. The pitiful distress in his voice made him sick. 

It didn't take much for Arcade to piece it all together. Becket never talked much about Benny or what happened in Goodsprings, but he knew what happened that night in the Tops. Becket spilled it out in drawled words the next morning while he lay on Arcade's operating table, shaking from a chem high and covered in blood. 

“Obviously not.” Arcade replied, curtly. Coddled words and gentle hands would only irritate Becket and he knew it; candid wasn’t his preferred tone of conversation but it was what the situation called for. The courier grunted. “Unless he has a twin you didn't know about, the man in the tent is Benny. What are you going to do about it?”

The longer they stood outside debating the more insulted Caesar would get. The man offered up a reward-sacrifice and it'd taken less than two minutes for Becket to storm out looking like he’d been offered a burnt rat. Whatever the decision was, it needed to be made quick if they didn't want to end up crucified and displayed along the Colorado.

Becket was silent. He thought of the impossible man kneeling in the tent behind them. It was wrong. Something glitched in the world that shouldn't be. 

The answer was obvious. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Arcade stepped closer, his face scrunched together as if Becket just suggested brahmin could fly. “You can't just kill him - you can't even remember what happened that night. He’s the only one left alive who knows the answers. Don't you want to find out?”

“I  _ want _ to  _ kill _ him.” Becket still hadn’t turned to look at him. His voice was firm and audibly lacking the accent.

Arcade rolled his eyes. “Yes, so you've said. Don't let revenge blind you to an opportunity, Becket. You didn't want to work for House and this is your way out of that. Cut out the middleman and talk to Benny yourself.”

“I don’t care what he has to say.  ‘Doubt we’ll have much time to reminisce anyways. The man’s kneeling in Caesar’s tent - he’s dying today, one way or another.” There might have been a way to work around it, if he really tried. Said the right words and made the right expressions. But he wouldn't.

“The entire time I’ve known you… The only thing you’ve ever cared about is that man and what you were before Goodsprings. Don’t give me that look, Becket, I have eyes.” Becket barked out a laugh, an ugly sound that seemed to echo through the camp. Arcade persisted. “Whatever satisfaction you get from butchering him will pale in comparison to the information he has.”

“It doesn't  _ matter _ , Arcade. Shit, can't you understand that? Whatever he knows, whatever I  _ was _ , it doesn't mean shit anymore. What's the point of finding out when I'm just gonna forget in a few days anyway?” Becket wiped his face with calloused hands. The stubble had grown out too much and needed to be cut back. He turned around to face Arcade. The man looked two parts sympathetic one part exasperated. 

“Something happened to you at the Tops. Whatever it was, I couldn’t see it, and neither could any of the Followers. While we may not be brain surgeons, we’re not stupid people, Becket. If Benny did something to you then we need to know. For your sake. Amnesia isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe it or not.”

Becket waved him off, the motion flippant.“Whatever’s done is done. I don’t need to know the details.”

“Are you afraid? Is that it? You've spent all this time looking for answers and now that you've met the precipice you're too scared to jump.” Arcade stepped closer. His tone was irritatingly mild, as if Becket were a child throwing a baseless tantrum.

Becket snarled, throwing his hands in the air. “Scared? What’s he gonna do Arcade, shoot me again? You know something I don’t? Cause if not I suggest you stay the hell out of my business.”

Arcade put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it almost to the point of pinching, and stared at him with cold eyes. “You can run from your past all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened to you. It's a part of you, Becket, and it always will be. You can't run from who you are.”

There was more there - something running parallel to their conversation, to the weariness etched in Arcade’s face - but it was lost under the wave of insurgent rage.  

“And who the hell are you to tell me who I am?” He crowded further into Arcade’s space, pulse thrumming a wild beat. That was  _ enough. _

Man after man stringing him along with veiled messages and promises, hinting at who he was and what he’d done. A never ending barrage of choices taken from him and decisions made.

His fingers twitched and curled against themselves, over eager and ready to puncture the smooth skin of Arcade’s neck. “One fuck and suddenly you’re in charge of my whole life? Telling me what I can and can’t do? I’m the one in charge here, Doc, and if you don’t like it you are more than welcome to leave.”

He shrugged Arcade’s hand off his shoulder and shoved past towards the tent. The two praetorians outside shifted nervously as he stormed by. 

“Becket!” Arcade called after him. “If you close this door you can't open it again. Not without paying the price.”

He didn’t turn back to give his answer. The words escaped his lips in a quiet rumble. “I'll pay it.”

* * *

If Caesar approved of his decision he didn’t say. Displays of power were the Legion’s bread and butter, so some part of him must have been pleased when the praetorians dragged Benny away kicking and screaming. The sound of his voice, scratchy and wailing, carried through the camp for several minutes before it cut out abruptly. An action most likely taken because it annoyed the guards, who then shut him up.

Arcade’s displeasure was palpable. He stood in the entrance of the tent, face drawn into a harsh scowl that clashed against his features. It was a quiet disapproval, one Becket wasn’t privy to and never would be. In the back of his mind he realized how odd it felt to be on the receiving end of that rancor.

“Did you want to do it yourself? I can tell them to wait.” Caesar asked, his chin cradled in the palm of one shaking hand. The soft jittering was hard to ignore, Becket didn’t know how Vulpes could stand there all day and pretend not to notice.

“No.” His eyes dragged up. “Hang ‘im up.”

“Don’t like dirty hands, huh? A man after my own heart.” Caesar smirked with pinched eyes and waved him over. “Are you ready to get started?”

* * *

The smell of rust overwhelmed the bunker. Flakes of it billowed into the air like a grand cloud when they opened the hatch. The Legionnaire standing nearby glared at them with swollen, watery eyes before hacking coughs erupted from him and he fled the shack. Becket tucked his face into the scratchy scarf he'd brought along with him and descended into darkness.

Arcade trailed behind, an ominous presence who spoke no words and made no sound.

Rust gave way to an unfamiliar staleness. The metal underfoot was, by no means, clean; there were smudged footprints and track marks left on the surface of steel. But for all the marks and hints of past dwellers there was no dirt or dust. Nothing organic had seen these walls in over 200 years. 

There was absolute silence in the main lobby. Even the various screens and computers were running without their signature beeps and wheezes. Their entrance felt like a violation: they weren't meant to be here. It was a relic of a dead age meant to be forgotten and buried under dirt. At their approach, House's face blinked onto the monitor and cast the room in a sickly green. The picture flickered in and out as the unmoving face talked. 

Activate the securitrons. Avoid security. Report back to the Lucky 38.

The transmission ended, leaving a dimmed screen and resumed silence. Becket didn't look at Arcade when he loaded his gun. The bullets felt cold between his fingers. “Nobody’s watching you down here. Stay in the lobby if you want, I'll be back later.”

Arcade scoffed without humor. He’d already reloaded and reset his rifle when they were back above in the shack. It hung against his back, ready to fire in a moment’s notice.“I doubt you're capable of hacking terminals. You know they're down there, so I might as well come.” 

“Fine then.” The last of the bullets slid in and he clicked the chamber closed. 

The silence was broken again when his Pipboy began to click. The noise was so soft he almost missed it. Becket only realized when, to scratch a tuft of rust off his head, the machine was brought next to his ear. 

Radiation slowly seeped through the walls to idle in stale air. Only 1 rad per minute - nothing to worry about so long as they were quick. If there was any side effects of the exposure he couldn’t tell, not when he was already feeling like he’d been thrown off a cliff. He popped a RadX anyway and wordlessly offered another to Arcade. 

Time seemed to flow at different speeds. One moment they were crouched under turrets and evading sentry bots, bullets whizzing by like little sparks of light that ricochet like lightening in the small space. He’d blink and realize they’d already moved through two rooms and several terminals. Every time felt like waking up from a dream, like someone else was moving his hands and pulling the trigger. In the next moment time would roll by like molasses. Every step seemed to drag on too long, words felt awkward and blunt on his tongue. He would turn his head and see the room roll by almost in a stutter-stop motion. 

By the time they reached the last terminal he felt ill. The RadX from earlier felt like a bad decision when, in a moment of confusion, he could’ve sworn he felt the pill still scraping down his throat. He was stood a foot away from the terminal watching while Arcade typed and clicked through options in order to reboot the system and install the securitron upgrade. The faint clicking nauseated him until he eventually walked to the other side of the room and pressed his forehead into the wall. 

At his feet was the mangled corpse of a turret they’d wrecked a few moments prior. It spat sparks and light in one last ditch effort. He stared down at it wearily until an ungodly sound rang through the vault. 

He pushed away from the wall so fast he staggered. Arcade had already turned to face him and lunged forward when Becket swayed, supporting him while they looked around at the seemingly pulsing walls. The sound of crunching, shifting metal rumbled around them in a chorus. The overhead lights began to strobe weakly as the faces of securitrons blinked into life through vault’s windows. Somewhere, hidden behind the vast rows of war-machines, was a factory. The once quiet crypt fluttered against itself with enthusiasm, chugging into a new age of productivity. 

“Becket?” Arcade’s breath was warm against his cheek. 

“‘M fine. Just the rads.” He murmured, his legs locking up to support himself without Arcade’s help. 

“We have extra Radaway. You should use it while you can; who knows how long Caesar will captivate us with stolen rhetoric and war speeches when we get back.” He didn’t wait for Becket’s refusal, already rifling through their shared backpack until the chem was in hand. Becket stared at the IV port and felt nauseous. 

Even though anger still loomed just a hair’s breath away he wanted to say something charming, something stupid that would make Arcade roll his eyes like usual. But the words wouldn’t come forward and the moment was dragging on too long. They couldn’t stay buried in the vault forever just because he felt bad. If Arcade weren’t here then maybe he would, as loud as it was. “Save ‘em. It’ll pass once we’re outta here.”

Arcade stared at him for a long moment but said nothing. He gave a curt nod then tucked the pouch back into the backpack, irritation evident in the way he stepped away stiffly and muttered “Stultus est sicut stultus facit.”

They stopped periodically to loot on the way out. There wasn't much to take in any of the lockers or on the shelves, but metal was always in demand and caps guaranteed once they returned to civilization. A few paint guns and scraps were tossed in the bag haphazardly, neither caring if the sharp edges punctured anything within, and the rest of the computers hacked. By the time they returned to the lobby House was already waiting. Becket wondered if he could hear the clamoring bodies of securitrons through the computer speakers, and whether or not it made him proud. Probably. 

The tinny voice greeted them. “Well done. It's good to see you've chosen the right path: a choice that will benefit you greatly in the near future.”

“Good to know.” 

Another deal ‘closed’. Another prize dangled in front of him that didn't feel deserved or desired. The promise of safety, food, and power should have made him feel downright tingly with satisfaction. Working for House meant a pampered life sprinkled with the occasional dirty work - something he would have killed for in another life. Comfort with just the right amount of action. 

House rattled on, wrapped up in another speech he'd probably planned word-for-word over the past 200 years. He was so sure of himself, so confident in who he was and how to mold the future. Was he happy? What kind of life did he have, squirreled away, alone, in the Lucky 38? Some people thrived on power. It captivated their thoughts from dawn til dusk every day. There was always something to do, another path forward, and anything blocking that was a distraction. Friends, family, love. Becket frowned at the monitor, eyes zooming in on the multicolored pixels. People like that weren't really people, he thought. Sure, comfort is nice. But what's the point if you're alone? If the only touch you feel comes from calloused fists, and the only conversations you have based on fear?

He could live in the tower. Like a fucking prince, secluded from the strip and anyone who ever thought they knew him. So what if he forgot? Bathed in sunlight and sipping his beer, who gave a shit if he couldn't remember what he had for breakfast? What he said to House the day prior? Maybe, one day, he'd even forget Benny. If no one was around to remind him then there's no pain in letting go. 

Hold a body under water long enough and they'll sleep. It'd be peaceful. 

He was tired of fighting it all. What's gone is gone, wiped away by smooth metal and broken tissue. Sure, someone out there probably knew him. They could tell him everything that'd ever happened to him but that's all it ever would be: a story. Brain damage doesn't have any cute cures he can turn to like amnesia. They'll always be gone. Hearing about what was won't make him feel whole again. 

He had to start over - begin again. Pick a side and stick to it because on your own there's nothing. He'd pushed Arcade to the corner - the timer for that relationship was already ticking down. It's not like they'd known each other for a grand amount of time, anyway. Relying on him to play ‘does this ring a bell?’ for the remainder of Becket's adult life seemed like a shitty idea at best. With House, at least he'd be useful enough to be taken care of.

Letting go was what he needed to do. Sending Benny to the cross was doing just that. But the thought still made his stomach twist and throat burn. He wanted to know. God help him, he still did. Even if it was just a story - just a tale about some other fella - maybe it would fill that gap in his chest. Maybe he'd feel just a bit more solid. 

But what if it didn't? What if, even after hearing every last detail, he still felt like this? A half man? A cardboard cut off of what he once was?

Sitting in the Lucky 38, sipping his beer as the days flashed by, he would still have that thread of hope. Don't open the door and you'll always be able to imagine the best scenario behind it. You'll always have that mystery to get you through the day. If you know, undeniably and unequivocally, that you will be miserable no matter what you do, well then hell. 

What's the point in living?

* * *

 

“I could feel the destruction all the way here. I don't know how you did it and I don't  _ want  _ to know. Now that it's taken care of we can take the next steps without any distractions hanging on our doorstep.” Caesar didn't hesitate before beginning. Unblinking and uncaring of the sad sight before him, he launched into the next set of tasks. 

Courier and doctor both looked like they'd seen better days. Becket stared ahead with glassy eyes and a stiff jaw, his fingers locked when Caesar slipped the Platinum Chip back into his possession. Arcade stood with agitated self-awareness and eyed the praetorians with barely concealed distrust. Ever since they'd exited the vault the Fort's eyes had been glued to their backs. Harsh murmurs and whispers were followed by twitchy fingers - it seemed like they were waiting for Caesar to give the death sentence. 

However short the debriefing was, it couldn't have come sooner. Before they knew it the two were ushered out by a pained Caesar and entrusted with their equipment. They stood outside the tent in silence while they reloaded guns and strapped on packs. Becket still refused the Med-X when offered. It was only a little past noon when the sun glared down at them, the radiation unhindered by passing clouds or snow. 

The march out of camp felt like a walk of shame - everyone knew they were Caesar's newest bitch. Or at least they assumed. Reactions varied. The slaves bowed their heads and prostrated themselves, the recruits gave their greetings with respect. The older legionnaires scowled with open disgust and confusion - how did a profligate gain Caesar’s trust when they couldn't?

The docks were a welcome sight. The air lower to the water was significantly cooler and fresh. Breathing it in cleared some of the distress from Becket's mind and allowed him to step onto the boat without losing balance. Arcade hesitated a moment before sitting, eyes slowing roving between Becket and the middle row. He chose Becket, and all that entailed.

The cursor Lucullus didn't bother them with questions or commentary. He hadn't the first time, either, but after all that had happened in the Fort it was a welcome surprise not to be prodded. The three sat in silence while the water carried them to the Cove.

* * *

 

Severus was the one who met them at the docks in Cottonwood Cove. Neither of them had expected a farewell party so the appearance was, to say the least, unappreciated. He stood at the base of the dock sans the burnt recruit they'd seen last time. When Becket and Arcade stepped ashore he moved forward in prompt steps.

“Courier. We received your gift several hours ago at dawn. Caesar saw fit to reward your loyalty by displaying him at the top of the cove for your viewing pleasure, upon exit.” Severus explained. His voice, though muffled by the mask, came out smooth. Becket stiffened and Arcade watched as his fingers flexed lazily. The motion went unnoticed by the Decanus as he continued.

“There's a recruit stationed to ensure he doesn't expire before your arrival. Feel free to extend your viewing as long as you please.” 

Arcade shifted to the forefront, effectively breaking the line of sight between Becket and the extremely punchable-looking man in front of him. “Yes, well, thanks for what. We'll be going now if you don't mind.” 

The interruption was met with affronted silence and a curt nod. Even the “ave, true to caesar” sounded disgusted by their unappreciation. Becket barely waited for the dismissal before shooting off like a bat out of hell. Arcade darted after him and the two practically power-walked up the hill together. 

Recruits and officers alike stared them down with squinted eyes, some running off to find Severus and make sure his body wasn't rolling down the Colorado. They painted a mighty suspicious scene, one which Arcade tried to combat by forcefully greeting every legionnaire they passed.

When when the path inched up into a rocky slope Becket's pace remained unwavering. 

Once they were out of ear range Arcade laid it on. At the top of the hill, right before the mouth of the canyon, the tips of a crucifix peeked out. “What are you doing?” 

Becket didn't look back.

Their charge ended when they rounded a corner of rocks and met the base of the canyon. Dead ahead, the sunburnt recruit from the day prior stood in regalia. Behind him, Benny's slumped body was pinned to the cross. 

At their not-so-quiet approach, the recruit bounced into life. He stepped forward with an open mouth ready to greet them, eyes sharp and young. For the second time in his life Arcade knew what would happen and still couldn't stop it. Faster than a whip crack, Becket took out his pistol and shot the boy down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the end of December I've had some tragedies in the family, so I'm sorry this came much later than promised. I'm starting to get my writing groove back now that things have calmed down so I think the next chapter will come much more easily. Thank you all for your patience and I hope you liked this chapter <3
> 
> Arcade's latin: Stupid is as stupid does


	10. The Penultimate Sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rings the dinner bell* come get ya smut

The Penultimate Sister

“History keeps her secrets longer than most of us. But she has one secret that I will reveal to you tonight in the greatest confidence. Sometimes there are no winners at all. And sometimes nobody needs to lose.”

-John le Carre

The shot echoed off the canyon walls. Below them, the sounds of alarmed legionnaires bounced back in a grim reply. Arcade jumped from the too-sudden boom, his eyes staring at the crumpled body in front of them. Even Benny, pale faced and limp, looked shocked by the sudden change in plans.

Becket stood between them, his eyes gouging more holes into Benny's suit.

“You know anything worth my time?” Becket’s voice was like gravel. Benny looked up. His eyes were wild, but not desperate. As if he enjoyed the chaos he had caused. His voice croaked, breaking and rasping in between the words.

“Hell yeah I do. Help me get loose and I'll tell you everything I know.”

“‘S’not enough, Benman.” Becket rumbled. He stepped over the dead recruit and into Benny's shadow. He brought the tip of his pistol and pressed it, gently, into the soft give of Benny's gut. “I need the _specifics._ ”

“It’s enough to make you the big boss, if that's the play you wanna make. Y’see there’s this robot-” Benny babbled out quickly.  Probably used to begging, at this point. He held his stomach in to get away from the gun barrel.

Becket pressed in further. From this close he could smell the blood drying on Benny’s skin, the reek of potential infections in the air around him. “Don't care about that. You think I need some slimey daisy suit to get me there? If I _wanted_ to? I wanna know about both them nights. You tell me every single speck of fuckin’ detail and I'll let you run your rat self straight out of town with not a hair misplaced.”

“You got it. Every detail, I hear you loud and clear, sugar plum.” Benny shut his eyes, nodding. “Just get me down, will ya? My hands are startin’ to hurt.”

Becket dropped his bag and moved to the splintering wood. How the Legion managed to strap a grown man to a half-decayed stick, he'd never know. The prickly shards that made up the planks looked almost glossy under the sunlight: a dark red stain that could've come from anyone or anything.

He couldn't reach Benny's hands.

The sound of a second bag hitting ground caught his attention. He looked back, seeing Arcade slip his coat off and move forward to join him. There wasn't judgment or approval in his eyes, just a steely expression squinting in the Mojave light. Becket watched quietly as the good doctor rolled up onto his toes, a sight that would've made him smile any other day but at the moment only seemed inappropriately silly. Arcade stared at Benny's hand a moment before grabbing the nail - not pulling, just holding it pinched between fingers.

“Hey- hey now, big guy,” Benny gaped. “I get that we got to burn some rubber here before those cuckoos catch up, but take it easy, yeah?”

Arcade frowned at the bleeding appendage. “What is it about being a hostage that makes you talk so much?”

Before he could answer Arcade ripped the nail out. Benny's hand spasmed, fingers curling in panic, before dropping to his side and shaking. The crucifix creaked wearily as his full weight sagged to the right, Arcade stepped back in case the whole thing fell over. There was a moment of silence while they waited - just in case - and when it passed Arcade looked over his shoulder at Becket.

“When I take the other one out and cut the rope you'll need to catch him.”

“Got it.”

Becket moved into position and watched the other nail get plucked. The only thing left keeping him attached was a thick rope looped around Benny's waist and the post. Arcade worked quickly to cut it, each sawing motion causing the fixture to sway and disturb Benny's wounds. When it released he fell forward limply into Becket’s hands, which scrambled to get a good hold on Benny's blood-slicked back. There was a wet squelch when his palms finally connected with intact suit jacket.

Benny groaned. “That thing is a real wet rag.”

“Can you fix ‘im up enough to make it to Novac?” Becket looked up at Arcade, who had moved to hover over them.

Arcade scoffed and looked back down into the valley. “I can sanitize his wounds here, but thanks to your stunt earlier I doubt even _I_ would have time to give him stitches before we were swarmed by angry slavers.”

“Do it, then.” Becket waved the dig off. They'd have time to argue it out later.

They didn't have any medical-grade alcohol so they made do with a bottle of vodka Becket had been saving for his worst nights. Becket held a writhing Benny while Arcade quickly doused his hands and back. They wrapped what they could in gauze and tossed the tattered checkered suit jacket. No one said anything about the ruby-red stripes that weaved across Benny's back, they just gave him a new shirt and hoped the thin fabric saved it from the sun.

They gave the recruit’s body one last look before setting off into the canyon.

* * *

 

If the Legion had wanted them dead they would be. There was no going around it - their snail's pace out of Cottonwood Cove would've been laughable to the muscle corded physique most legionnaires possessed. They could have caught up easily if that's what their superiors wanted.

The three of them inched along the desert in silence. Benny leaned on Becket's side, dragging his feet in the dirt whilst being wholly supported by the courier. The thin shirt they’d given him had already bled through and passed onto Becket's body. The air between them was a rancid mix of drying alcohol and blood. Arcade took the lead ahead of it all. His rifle was loaded and humming, pleased to finally be used. Even if it was just against some geckos and the occasional ghoul.

They were officially out of Legion territory when the first few mines showed up. In those rolling hills between the cove and Novac there were numerous hole-in-the-wall hideouts and camps ripe for the taking. He'd never taken the time to go through them before and didn't plan on it anytime soon. He’d spent enough time in the symbolic “dark” to already hate the literal kind.

The sound of gunshots made them all freeze. They were at the bottom of a hill and tucked into shadows, but that meant nothing if someone stood at the top and looked down. Arcade looked back at Becket and the two glanced around. No cover. No telling what was over the hill. Could be a trader taking pot shots or a raider gang camping out.

They moved in flush with the rock formation that wound around the hill. Better to have your back to something, after all. Becket dumped Benny against the wall and checked his pulse (fluttering, weak, but moving) again before joining Arcade, who was moving upward towards the hilltop, crouched and looking down the rifle scope.

“See anything?” Becket whispered. He pulled out his own gun and took the safety off.

“Unless that yucca tree learned how to fire a bullet, nothing.” Arcade murmured back. While they weren't at the summit yet  they could still peek over and get a fair lay of the land. Nothing but the usual mutated nonsense.

Becket nodded towards a mine opening a little ways ahead. “Maybe from in there?”

“It’s certainly possible.”

They didn't hear the pebbles fall behind them. Maybe it was the heat boiling their brains, or fatigue.

“Well, what d’you wanna do? Sneak past? Can't risk what we have.”

“If someone is in there it shouldn't be hard to-”

The distinct _click_ of a loaded pistol came from just behind his head. The barrel nudged into the soft space behind his ears where his pulse beat wildly and the skin felt too hot.

His first instinct was to close his eyes. Of all the things he could have done it was the only one that seemed appropriate. Did he close his eyes when Benny shot him? He couldn't remember. But God be damned if the last thing he ever saw was some dumbfuck geckos squawking in the distance.

“Drop the guns and turn over.”

His eyes cracked open a sliver. In the peripheral he could see Arcade's fingers loosen until the rifle slid onto the ground. He dropped his own pistol and chanced another look at Arcade. He looked downright _livid_. Fingers shaking, face pinched, body stiff. It was the most emotion he'd shown since they were in the tent together. Becket's stare caught his attention and when the two locked eyes Becket couldn't help the small reassuring smile that felt awkward on his face. The sentiment seemed to surprise Arcade enough that he didn't fight it when their assailants kicked them onto their backs.

The sun blocked out most of their features but it was definitely the shape of two men who stood over them, armed to the teeth. The animal skulls and chem scent were more than enough evidence. Two raiders. Fiends, to be exact. Because life loved Becket and wanted to make sure he got the most out of an awful day.

“Where’s the rest?” The one above Becket snarled. A fleck of spit landed in the dirt next to his head.

Down past his feet Becket could spot a third Fiend standing over Benny’s unconscious form. If they thought he was dead, all the better. He squinted back at the spit-flinger. “Rest of what?”

Another kick into his ribs. “Don’t play stupid! The rest of your crew. The baldie and the bot. Where are they?”

“Not here. Just us.” The fact that these goons  had snuck around Novac without being shot was a miracle in itself. There must’ve been a lull during shift change if a whole group of metal armored, very reflective raiders were able to slink through.

The Fiend frowned and looked at his buddy. The only thing Becket could make out was a set of shrugging shoulders. “You sure about that?”

Becket scowled. “Think I’d know if I had a singing disco ball floatin’ behind me.”

They must’ve been convinced because soon enough him and Arcade were being hauled off the ground and onto their feet. Color swam back into his vision and black spots danced across his retinas like a strobe. The spit-flinger was clad in heavy metal armor littered with skulls and junk wrapped around the spikes. There were tin cans soldered on and coyote heads tied down with fraying strings, but no smell that implied they were fresh kills. In fact, they both smelled distinctly unraider like. No viscera spread across their faces, no vomit or piss - just the sharp smell of antiseptic.

The one down by Benny kicked him, albeit gently, until he slumped further down the rock wall. “I think this one’s dead!” He called up. Becket stared at the body with narrowed eyes, his pulse picking up in his ears once more. If the Fiends hadn’t killed them on sight then they must have plans, which meant there was no immediate danger there. But if Benny keeled over in the desert because they got jumped, taking his secrets with him, Becket would shoot himself then and there. Enough games.

“Did’ya check ‘is pulse?” Arcade’s guard yelled back. Why they had to scream at each other from 15 feet away, Becket would never know.   

“Uh,” the third mumbled something under his breath.

“Well get on it!”

He checked Benny’s limp wrist half-heartedly, then turned to give a thumbs up. “He’s good.” Becket visibly deflated, cupping his hands across his eyes for a moment and sighing. The movement made his guard flinch and bring his gun back up to eye level. “Hands down asshole! We’re not done yet. Grab your shit and let’s get moving. No funny business either - we’re watching you.”

They picked their bags back up and the four joined Benny and the third Fiend, who was staring down at his body with barely concealed disgust. “He’s starting to smell something fierce…”

Becket’s guard glared at him with slitted eyes. “It’s the fuckin’ desert, what’d you expect, flowers and daisies?”

They had to carry him.

Benny’s weight was split between Arcade and Becket, who each had an arm draped across their backs and a grip on his body. It was an awkward shamble to fall into since Arcade’s side rose up so much higher and left Becket with most of the weight and blood. The third guard took up the rear and prodded their backs with the tip of his rifle whenever they slowed while the other two lead them over the hill and into the valleys. They talked quietly between themselves and kept looking back at Becket with indiscernible expressions.

Otherwise left to themselves, Becket and Arcade remained silent. There wasn’t much opportunity to speak with a body between them so they took whatever chance they could get. That meant a series of mouthed words and wild expressions whenever Benny’s head dipped low enough and the guard behind them was too busy kicking dirt.

Becket nodded towards the two in front of them. _From Novac?_

Arcade squinted. _Yes._

The group made it to the crest of another hill, this one looking down into a valley centered by a small lake-like puddle bordered with irradiated barrels. Across from it and raised by another hilltop was the entrance to a mine. Stationed outside was a small handful of Fiends sitting around campfires and patrolling. These were the ones from outside Novac and Westside. The woman who called his name was somewhere among them.

Arcade must have come to the same realization because he slowly turned his head to Becket and looked back at the camp. _Don’t run._

Between him and Arcade the three escorts would have been easy targets to take out, but an escape from the camp - even at this distance - would be impossible without sacrificing Benny. Based on the way things looked, his pale face and twitching skin, he’d probably die whether they left him or not. But Becket had gone through too much shit to leave him rotting. Answers were there, at the tips of his fingers, and he wasn’t going to throw them away. Life wasn't worth living without em.

The closer they got to the mine the more Fiends seemed to pop out of the sand. A quick count said 14 on the surface not including their escorts. Backpacks piled by the mine entrance suggested more deeper in.

The only raiders Becket had seen south of Novac were factionless, splintered groups of people - no one big like the Fiends or Khans. For Fiends to venture so far from their vault there had to be a big payoff. Maybe he'd finally killed enough of them to get himself noticed.

Their approach garnered stares from those sitting around but, surprisingly, nothing inherently threatening. Most discomfort came from their squinting eyes and frowns. No one said anything to their escorts so the six of them marched through camp quietly until they reached a clearing in front of the mine.

The rear guard skipped closer to them and jammed his rifle into Arcade’s back with enough force to make him stumble. The momentum, knocking directly into his shoulder blade, made Arcade lose enough of his grip that the rest of Benny's weight slid down onto Becket's shoulders.

“ _Jesus-_ ” Becket grunted, feet slipping in the sand to accommodate the extra load before regaining control. Benny twitched a little before returning to a corpse-like stillness. The scuffle prompted the two front guards to whip around. Becket scowled at them. “For Christ's sake, tell Pushy Paul back there to fuck off for a minute.”

They glared. “On your knees.”

Arcade slipped his arms back into place and together they lowered Benny's body onto the ground before kneeling beside him. Another subtle pulse check assured them Benny was still alive. Becket looked at his body and scowled. “Don't think we can hold him up to kneel… So, uh, that'll have to do.”

The fiend in metal armor left and headed into the mouth of the mine. Immediately darkness swallowed his form, leaving nothing but empty space in his absence. The remaining guard turned his back to them and stared at the mine. Becket risked a glance at Arcade.

The doc must've sensed his staring. They just sat, the moment stretching long as fire crackled in the background and the afternoon ticked by, and stared at each other. The main event was coming up soon and the two of them were trussed up in a firing line, so Becket decided to swallow his pride.

He nodded towards Benny's body. Arcade followed his gaze with a confused look until Becket mouthed the words.

_I'm sorry. You were right._

A small smile wrinkled his mouth and the sincerity of the gesture was soon followed by a vicious eye roll.

_I know._

Shoes scuffing dirt drew their attention back to the mine’s mouth. A moment later two people emerged from the darkness - a man in metal armor and a woman covered in tattoos.

Up close it was easy to see she _was_ the same Fiend who had called after him all those weeks ago. All the details were just clearer now.

Even when kneeling Becket could tell she was taller than him. A once-over showed a corded waist and solid build usually reserved for muscle-head NCR boys. Her skin, a few shades lighter than Becket's, was almost inked to completion. Stars, words and pictures littered across her body and peeked out from the low cut of her shirt. The last of the visible markings trailed off at the neck, leaving a clean face framed by rusty hair.

Her eyes were intense, beady. They locked onto him with a particular kind of focus that made him feel like she was going to fillet him for dinner.

She looked over the three of them slowly, eyes lingering on Benny for several moments before scowling at Arcade. The process continued for a few more awfully slow seconds before she moved.

She jerked her chin towards Becket. “That one. Bring ‘im back.”

Two sets of hands descended from above to wrench him up off the ground. His legs had gone numb beneath him and scrambled in a futile attempt to hold his own against the raiders, kicking clouds of swirling sand into the air. Arcade jerked in his peripheral but was quickly shoved back down by the third escort. They didn't bother standing Becket upright, instead opting to drag him across the clearing and through the mouth of the mine. The woman walked ahead of them.

The air inside was thick with smoke and the smell of burnt brahmin. How someone managed to burn brahmin meat baffled him - you could blow torch a steak and still barely get through the skin. These raiders either had a particular inclination for burnt food or they were just plain stupid. Neither option sounded good.

Once past the initial darkness of the mine he could see a small camp set up down the path - far enough to smother any conversation, or torture, they planned for him from the outside world. The woman stood next to the fire pit with her back facing him. Across from her was a chair, the one he found himself being slammed into a moment later. To his surprise the hands on his shoulder loosened immediately. One even squeezed briefly before letting go as the two Fiends walked back to the mouth of the cave.

The two of them lingered in silence a few more moments before the woman let out a monstrous sigh. “I can't believe you made me walk to the middle of fuckin’ nowhere just to sit your ass down for a conversation. Jesus, Becket, you ever hear of fucking courtesy?”

She turned around. The person talking to him now was a different creature altogether - the intensity was still there but now nestled beside an almost juvenile frustration. Her lips pursed together into a thin line at his silence, which only prompted her further.

“Look. I know you're workin’ a job but shit - throw me a bone here. A letter. Thumbs up. Gift basket.” She threw her arms in the air when he just continued to stare. “What? You lose your damn tongue since I last seen you?”

A thousand thoughts a minute shot through his head, each colliding into one another and reforming each time she spoke. It was like getting 20 puzzle pieces but each was from a different set and you had to assemble a picture within the next minute. His mouth felt slow. “I don't know you.”

The restless pacing stopped long enough for her to give him a withering look. “Ha ha. You’re a regular comedian.”

Becket fidgeted in the chair, almost choking on a desperate laugh that sounded panicked even to his own ears. Was it a game? Just some colloquial familiarity? “I’m not- Look, lady, I don’t know you.”

She just scowled. “You don’t wanna tell me what you’ve been up to? Fine. Fuck if I care.”

“Who are you?” He stood now, body and mind too riled up to be confined to a chair. He noticed she didn’t even blink when he got up, in fact, despite her obvious irritation she seemed comfortable with his presence. It made the hairs on his neck stand up. His gun was still loaded and resting against his hip. When he rested a hand on it her eyes tracked the movement and her frown deepened.

“You’re not funny, Becket. Knock it off.”

“I don’t know you,” he hissed. He didn’t want this. Not now. Not. Now. Benny was laying outside and he had all the answers Becket wanted. A vague glimpse into the life he had before, not whatever this was. With Benny there was a barrier; something between him and all the shit from before. It was safe. He was ready for that, those small steps.

Getting a piece of the past in the flesh was not what he wanted. Not something he could handle.

Both of them began to tense up rigidly, the air becoming heavy and the silence no longer comfortable on her half.

She stepped forward with a raised hand, to punch him, or touch - or whatever, and he slid back just as easily. The confusion on her face began to fade out for uneasy anger, as if he was some unruly kid who was horsing around instead of doing what he was meant to.“Stop foolin’ around.”  

“You ambush me, stick a gun to my head,.drag me across the fuckin’ desert then expect me to get comfy cozy with you?” He snarled. He stood at an angle, one shoulder pointed back at the wall and the other at her. His body acted before any objections and grabbed the pistol out of its holster. It’d be easy. Just like the boy at Cottonwood. Bang bang. .

She stepped back and hovered over her own with narrowed eyes, not rising to the draw. “You forced my hand. Didn’t think you’d be so sensitive to a little rough-handling.”

“Last time we met you almost shot me!”

“Yeah? What’s new?” She rolled her eyes, fingers moving away from the holster. “What’s got you so damn twitchy?”

His thumb was rubbing holes into the pistol grip. “I’m gonna say it one more time. I. Dont. Know. You. I don’t know your friends, why you’re here, or what you want. What _I_ want is to stroll outta here without gettin’ shot in the knees. So if you have somethin’ to do, get it done.”

The tension reached a plateau. They stared at each other for a moment and he saw when the light turned on in her mind. Her head cocked to the side, expression falling into something vulnerable. It was strange to see on such a harsh face and made him falter for a second. She took a half step closer to him again and this time he stayed put. “Wait. Are you bein’ serious?

Exasperation lanced through whatever null he experienced. He threw his arms into the air and yelled back. “No shit! You finally decide to open your damn ears?”

“You don’t know me?” She asked again. Flames from the fire pit licked up into the air as a log fell in, cascading her face in light. It made the mine feel ominous and crushing in a way that took the air from his lungs. Trapped in a hole with nowhere to run. The look in her eye said it all. He wasn’t leaving til she got what she wanted.

“No,” he repeated, calmer this time. The anger and frustration was leached out of him in place for a paradoxical mix of hysteria and calm. Half of him wanted to scramble out the cave before the situation got more complicated - what kind of shit was about to unravel? - the other half was calm in the same way one is calm while standing before a firing squad. Comforted by the sense of inevitability.

There was disbelief in her eyes. “You’re sure?”

He stared at her face and nothing came, not even a twitch in his gut or a faded glimpse of memory. B l a n k. “I’m pretty fuckin’ sure.”

“Do you know my name?”

“No-” he groaned, ready to fight off another speech. She interrupted him.

“It’s Gabrielle. Gabby. That’s what you call me.” She snapped the words at him. The walls around them felt smaller and she stood in the center of it all, sucking up the light around them until the rest fizzled in and out of vision. That intense aura returned and Becket added it to the reasons he didn’t want to know her. The way she moved and held herself - stiff with quick movements - spoke of a deeper aggression. He wished Arcade was with him, or Boone, or just someone who knew when to pull out of a situation before it was too late.

“Why?” They circled around the firepit. More like shuffled, on his part, and stalked on hers.

More impatience. Dismissal. To her this was just a blip in the regular schedule, not a revelation that could change your soul.

Gabrielle snorted. “Because we’re family? You been callin’ me that since I started walkin’.”

Becket stopped. Another retort was on the tip of his tongue, ready to lash out, when the words caught up. And for one moment in his life everything went blessedly silent. Gabrielle, the fire, his mind. His head swung back and forth like a puppet with cut strings.  He wasn’t speaking to her anymore. He stared further into the mine as if the darkness held his answers. “No, we’re not.”

“Are you serious?” She yelled at him now, inching closer through the outburst. “I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I know who my brother is.”

“I- Jesus-” The shaking made hair fall into his face. He ran a hand through the dusty mess and tried wiping away the grime. Gabrielle's eyes snapped to his now-exposed forehead, her jaw making an audible click before snapping open again.

“What the fuck is that?” She finally closed the distance between them and reached towards his face. The sudden movement startled him and he smacked her hands away. “What the fuck? What _the fuck_ , Becket? Is that a bullet hole?”

“Yeah! Yeah it is. I got shot in Goodsprings. Old news.” He dug a nail into the starburst. Gabrielle's inked hands shot to her eyes, rubbing deeply while she let out a long note of despair.

“S’that why? You got all fucked up and don't remember anything? Nothing?”

Becket let his hands drop. “It fades in ‘n out. Sometimes I forget things. But,” he looked back up at her. “I don't remember you.”

“I’m your sister. You-” she threw an arm out at him and pointed to a batch of black stars on her forearm with the other. “You did that when I was 16. Out back behind the house when it was just us. I cried like a damn baby the whole time.”

He stared at the stars so hard he must've burst a blood vessel. Puzzle pieces puzzle pieces. Again, nothing. Not even the tingles he felt when seeing old scars. “I don't remember.”

She snarled at him but the anger felt hollow. “You don't _need_ to remember, shit. I'll tell you everything that ever fuckin’ happened to you if it helps rattle the cage.”

“Yeah, lemme sit here and have a stranger tell me who I am. How in hell could that go wrong?” He waved her off and looked back at the chair he'd been sitting on. The stupid splintered thing had the audacity to look more put-together than he felt.

She could be anyone. Some raider junkie who heard his story and saw an opportunity.

“You callin’ me a liar? The bastard who doesn't know ‘is middle name is suddenly on his high horse. You want me to prove it? Fine.” She spit into the fire.

Incredulous, Becket glared. “How's that?”

“Ask me somethin’. Anything. Something only family would know.” She crossed her arms across her chest, confident in her approach. As if a single question would blow open the whole dam.

He turned his back to her again to think. Stupid. So God damned stupid and yet there he was, standing in a mine that reeked of burnt brahmin playing 20 questions with a raider.

Birthday? No. Too easy to make up. Where they grew up? No, same problem. How old he was? Yeah, that he knew. 32. Of all the dumb facts he could've remembered, that was the one. But did he really want to stake his trust on a single number?

No.

He glanced back at Gabrielle. She hadn't moved an inch. He looked back at the stars again. They were something permanent, infallible. Little dark scars.

His foot itched, and if that wasn't a sign he didn't know what was. Alright, then.

Becket moved back to the chair and plopped down quick enough to give it grief. Gabrielle watched him silently roll up one of his pant legs and undo the laces of his dirt covered boot. A moment later he flung it and the sock to the side, leaving his foot and ankle exposed. The scarred up skin looked clammy in the firelight but the word carved in was still legible. NEL.

He pointed to it. “What is it?”

Her nose scrunched up in distaste while she walked over and leaned down to see what he was jabbing at. When recognition hit her lips popped a silent “oh”.

“Nel? Y’mean Nelly?”

“Who is it?” His grip around the ankle was white.

Gabrielle looked down at him with soft eyes. “She's your little sister. Ours. Youngest of the bunch. You two got the same daddy.”

He looked away. Picked up his shoe and sock again. Gabrielle went on.

“Dunno why you had to be a freak and carve yourself up like that, could've gotten it tatted like me.” She pulled down the front of her shirt a little to show. The name, written in a feminine cursive, was right above her breast and tucked between two decorative birds.

It felt right. She had it too and the name, attached to that picture, resonated with some part of him. It was too perfect. To have her fall from the sky and deliver everything to him on a silver platter, promises delivered there and then...

Boot on again, he stood and moved to the back of the cave. Hands on his hips to stop the shudder, he spoke to the darkness. “I've been strung along enough these past few months. If you're fuckin’ with me… I'll kill you, you know that?”

“Wouldn't respect you if you didn't. ‘M not lying, Becket.” She murmured back to him but didn't approach.

He whirled back on her. The hysterical part of him was resurfacing again, too overwhelmed, too vulnerable. “I would kill every person out there just to get the damn story straight. Yours, mine, whoever - I'm done,” his voice broke on the last word. He shut his eyes against the wave and breathed in. “Don't fuck with me on this, alright?”

“I ain't.”

He nodded, more to himself then her. There were still so many pieces missing but if she… If she was who she said then it didn't matter. It was something tangible. Family.

“Tell me more.”

She sighed and leaned against the dirt wall. “You got 4 sisters. One of em dead, her fault, don't worry. Y’got me, Nelly and Steph. She's the oldest ‘n takes care of Nel.”

“Why’d you pretend not to know me?” Not at first. Not by Westside, but now.

“You're a conman,” she shrugged. “Used to trick those frufru big horn ranchers back home all the time. When you acted like you didn't know me I figured you were tryin’a scam that doctor man out there. So I played the part n’case me knowin’ you would ruin that.”

He took a moment to digest it all. There were a million things he had to ask and none of them were coming outta his mouth. One step at a time. “Why track me down then? If you thought I was workin’?”

Silence. He finally faced her again and saw the crestfallen expression. “Oh, fuck,” she whispered. He frowned.

“What?”

“Why I came to get you. Fuck, you don't remember, do you? Right before you went to take that mailman job - you took a box from me. Half a stash of chems. It was supposed to get to Cook Cook.” She wailed and seemed to crumple in on herself stiffly.  “You were gonna keep it safe until I could pick it up.”

“Chems?” Becket echoed. Doc Mitchell hadn't said anything about boxes or extra possessions, and he didn't seem the type to hoard like a junkie. “Khans must've taken it after they shot me.”

She jerked back up. “They're gone? Fuck, Becket! I came to get you cause Cook Cook is losing his damn mind about it. Said he'd kill me if I didn't get it back!”

“Can't you just leave? What's the problem?” They were already out of Fiend territory, and if she lead this group it couldn't be that hard to sneak away when the rest were sleeping.

Gabrielle laughed. “Y’think any town is gonna let a known raider stroll right in? They see me and start shootin’, no questions asked. I can barely get into Freeside to see the family anymore.”

Family. Freeside. Where? He jotted it down in the back of his mind like a coveted secret.

“Come with me, then. I'm headin’ back to New Vegas anyways.” Becket offered. Not like anyone there would tell _him_ he couldn't bring a raider in.

“I can't just leave my crew. Most of ‘em are friends but some of them will do anything for the chems. Fuckin’ junkies. They'll snitch to Cook.”

“Then make it seem like we're gonna go get the stash,” he shrugged. “Once we're in Freeside you stay put while I finish up some business. Then I'll go find this shitstain and put his head on a pike.” Becket leveled with her. No matter what happened, she wouldn't be leaving his sight. Not for a long, long time.

She kicked the dirt. There was a defeated creased to her brow that made him think of a kid forced to eat their vegetables. The image made him realize the oppressive atmosphere had faded into something more familiar. With a heavy groan she conceded. “Alright. Fine. Not like we're not used to the lyin’ anyway.”

* * *

 

Climbing out of the mine left him feeling raw. The sunlight hurt his red-rimmed eyes and made it apparent to everyone that something ugly had happened in the cave, as if they couldn’t tell by his body language alone. Arcade was still kneeling in the clearing ahead while a couple of Fiends stood over Benny, checking his pulse and rifling through their gear halfheartedly. Gabrielle felt like a wall beside him and when they resurfaced every eye in the camp was on them.

“S’all good, knock it off.” She yelled at the two guarding Arcade. They shrugged and walked off together, nodding at Becket when they passed. He mimicked the greeting wearily and helped Arcade, his knees cracking audibly as he stood and dusted himself off.

“I take it you charmed our way to freedom?” Arcade sighed. Becket chuffed.

“You could say.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Gabrielle snorted. She was standing next to Benny, one boot poking his limp leg.

Becket tapped his forehead. “He’s the one who shot me.”

She looked between the two of them several times, dumbfounded as to why such a man would still be breathing, then pinched the bridge of her nose. “You know what? ‘M not even gonna ask.”

She turned to speak with the metal armored Fiend from earlier, effectively ignoring Becket for the time being. He jumped when Arcade’s hand moved to rest in the small of his back, a nervous grunt punctuating the movement. The hand retreated but Becket rectified the rejection by turning back to face Arcade. There wasn’t much privacy to be had in the middle of camp but they were close enough to speak quietly.

Arcade leaned in. His height made Becket feel small again, safer. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve aged a decade in the past hour.”

“Well shit, does that mean I’m a cradle robber now?” Becket smiled weakly but it was followed by a sigh. “She’s comin’ with us to New Vegas.”

Arcade frowned. “Is that all?”

Becket rubbed his wrist anxiously and didn’t meet Arcade’s gaze.“She’s m’sister.”

It sounded ridiculous when put like that. He wouldn’t have judged Arcade for looking at him like the Mojave’s biggest fool and a part of him still felt like one for believing it all. He never thought himself to be stupid - you had to be smart to live this long - but there’s a difference between practically stupid and emotionally naive. In all the time since Goodsprings he’d always kept those soft places covered up. Arcade was one of the few he felt safe rolling over for.

So even if it was all true, and that’s what his gut told him, it still felt wrong to show his belly to the world like that.

But Arcade didn’t laugh or roll his eyes, he just hummed and looked over at Gabrielle. “Do you make it a habit to find family hiding in dusty mines?”

Becket swatted his arm. “Only the strange ones.”

Gabrielle was barking orders at some men to patch up Benny. They buzzed around him quickly with bandages and chems, flicking his face to wake him up in between bandage chances, while she directed the rest. The silence between him and Arcade felt nice. The warmth from their conversation seeped out of him slowly, though, and the exhaustion from earlier began to creep back in.

“I assume we’ll talk about this later?” Arcade asked quietly.

“Yup.”

* * *

The walk back took longer than it should have. Gabrielle managed to ordered most of the Fiends to split up, taking only a small bunch with her while the rest returned home to the vault. The ones who travelled with them seemed to act more like friends than partners of convenience, so he understood the decision. Legionnaires never came after them so they called off the time crunch in favor of treating Benny. There wasn’t much else to do except hydrate and pump some Med-X into his system, so although he remained unconscious Becket wasn’t panicking over his death any time soon.

Just because Becket had Gabrielle didn’t mean Benny’s information was no longer valuable. Two of the bigger Fiends carried him in a makeshift hammock, staying in the middle of the train while Becket, Gabrielle and Arcade took the front. They decided to go around Novac instead of through to avoid any unnecessary complications - Boone wouldn’t shoot raiders if he saw friendlies in the middle but he would demand some answers. That took more time than Becket was willing to give, even if he was a friend. So around they went.

There wasn’t much talking between the three of them aside from the occasional bickering over travel plans. The Fiends were unused to continuous travel without pit stops for chems, and Gabrielle seemed intent to indulge them every time the need arose. Having someone else disagree, and downright ignore, his plans was an abrupt change of pace. His companions usually followed without much input, which worked well for him, and didn’t argue unless they had a better plan. Gabrielle argued for the sake of winning.

When Freeside’s neon lights appeared on the horizon they stopped to hide in the ruins outside of town. Far out enough that no caravan guards or Kings would spot them, but close enough to see the comings and goings of the city. Benny had regained consciousness and leaned against one of the walls while he chugged several waters. He hadn’t said much since then but gave a thumbs up when asked how he felt. To the side, Gabrielle and the Fiends huddled together and she said some quick words Becket didn’t hear. They all seemed to nod and agree with whatever it was before splitting up once more. A few of them waved goodbye to Becket before disappearing around corners and dissolving back into the Mojave.

It was just the four of them now.

Gabrielle cracked her knuckles. “So what’s your plan? Gonna snatch me some civvies and hope they don’t know?”

“Ditch the skulls, will ya? Just walk with me and you’ll be fine. We’re goin’ to the Wrangler.” Becket rolled his eyes and motioned towards the remains she had tied to her belt and pauldrons.

“That easy, huh?” She muttered to herself and began breaking the fragile bones.

Becket turned to Benny. He wasn’t the healthiest looking guy, but the nap had done him wonders. One of the Fiends left a spare shirt behind to cover up the bloodstains - not that anyone in Freeside would’ve cared, but it was part of the image. His eyes still had purple bags. “You good to walk in on your own?”

“Hey now, this is a classy chassis. I’m on the stick, baby. Good to go where you need me.” Benny made a valiant attempt at finger guns. Becket sighed. This was the great mastermind who wiped his life away. Maybe it was the emotional exhaustion settling in, but he honestly couldn’t come to hate the slimy bastard as much as he had a couple hours ago. Seeing the cynosure of your revenge bleeding out onto the sand can change one’s perspective. At least temporarily.

Once Gabrielle was more appropriately dressed they exited the ruin and made their way into town. The Kings for hire standing outside gave him a funny look but otherwise said their usual welcomes and regards from the King.

The usual smell and grime of Freeside set in immediately. It was simultaneously comforting and repelling in the same way being covered in dirt feels. You’re filthy, but at least the dirt knows what it is and there’s something natural in it. Freeside didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t. The kids still scrambled after rats and drifters eyed them just as hungrily when they walked by. The cryers were at their post and didn’t blink an eye when their local savior, a doctor, a raider, and the Tops tribal leader passed through.

Francine narrowed her eyes when the four of them stumbled into the Wrangler. Becket put on his best smile and slithered up to the bar. “Francine, I need a favor.”

“Ha! Who doesn’t? Half of Freeside would kill for one. What’re you looking for?” She looked up at him through thin lashes while she wiped down the bar.

“Need a couple of rooms. Got some extras with me tonight.” He jabbed a thumb back at the group. She looked over his shoulder and sighed.

“We only got one extra room left. It’s yours. You’ll still have your private room as usual.”

“You’re a doll.” He took the key from her and walked back.

“Always the charmer...” Gabrielle watched the key jingle in his hand.

“We got two rooms, don’t care how you wanna bunk up, just need to lay low for the night until things get straightened out tomorrow. Can’t have House findin’ out Benny’s back in town before we check things out.” He began undoing the straps of his backpack, opting to hold it and relieve his muscles of the strain.

Gabrielle jerked her chin at Benny. “I’ll watch ‘im. You get some sleep.”

“Havin’ a dame watch over me? No objections here. None at all.”

She slapped him on the back and took the key from Becket, leaning in to whisper “You’re welcome.”

Bunking settled, he and Arcade made their way to the usual suit. Each step up the stairs felt like another stab into the sensitive muscles of his thighs, and when they reached the room he had to give Arcade the key because his hands were shaking - from excess adrenaline or just coming down from it all, he didn’t know. Arcade opened the door with steady hands and took Becket’s bag from him as they walked in.

The room was completely dark so the first thing they did was start turning on the assorted lamps and fixtures. Well, Arcade did. Becket gave it an honest try before Arcade finished his and began doing Becket’s for him.

“Shit, really useless now, aren’t I? Can’t even turn a fuckin’ light on. Jesus.” He laughed and wrung his hands in front of him. Arcade didn’t laugh.

“It’s been a long day.” His voice was even but there was still warmth in it. Becket didn’t like it - didn’t like being so visibly wounded, open for the world to see and poke.

He coughed. “Yeah, no kidding.” Behind Arcade the bathroom door was halfway open and still dark. “Shower is yours if you want it first, I’m just gonna sit a minute if you don’t mind.”

At its mention Arcade groaned and rubbed his dirt-covered neck.“At the end of day I am a man, and man is selfish. A hot shower sounds like wistful fever dream right about now - I’ll take you up on that offer. Try not to pick up new relatives in the meantime, okay?”

“No promises” Becket waved him off and moved to lay on the bed. However flat the mattress usually felt paled in comparison to how wonderful it felt in that moment. The bones in his back cracked as he sank into the surface. The sound of the shower turning on floated in from the adjoining room, the water sounding like heavy rain on a rooftop. Steam followed shortly as the room heated up and slipped out from the bottom of the door. Becket sat up clumsily and started the process of wrestling his boots off. They were flung across the room along with his jacket, leaving him in his pants and a thin white tank.

They felt grimy against his skin and he grimaced before taking the tank top off too. Granules of sand still stuck to his skin and he dusted it off absently while staring at the bathroom door. His hands still shuddered against his stomach. Shadows danced beneath the door as Arcade shed his clothes and let them fall, piece by piece, until only a few strands of light made it through the slit.

He imagined how Arcade must look; pink freckled shoulders twisting around while he scrubbed down the day’s grime, his blonde hair flattened against his scalp, glasses discarded. Becket sighed at the image. His own skin itched unpleasantly, too tight and ill fitted. The desire to see Arcade wasn’t necessarily sexual in nature - his cock was flaccid against his thigh and showed no sign of changing anytime soon - he just wanted to be near him.

The longer he sat staring at the dirty door the more wound up he found himself. It shouldn’t be so hard to go over and knock, he thought to himself. But then what would he say? ‘Hey pal, I’ve got the emotional maturity of a grape and want you nearby, so make some room’? He could hear Arcade moving around in the water, singing to himself and completely unaware of the turmoil he caused.

“‘S’not even the words to ‘ _Johnny_ ’...” Becket scowled. After the second round of incorrect chorus Becket squirmed off the bed and knocked on the door a little rougher than planned. The quiet singing abruptly cut off and the shower curtain jingled.

“Yes?”

Becket frowned at the door like it had killed his dog. His mouth opened and shut a couple times before he got the words out. “Can I come in?”

There was silence on the other side and he almost backed away to apologize when Arcade answered. “Feel free. No one in here but me and my 35 year old glory.”

The door stuttered over the pile of clothes but swung open nonetheless. Becket quickly moved in and closed in behind him, then pressed his back against it and stared straight ahead at the old blue curtain. The steam made his skin feel dewy and overheated without the water to accompany it.

Arcade, apparently uncaring for his indecision, spoke again. “Were you planning to get in or was my singing just so good you needed a closer seat?”

It startled a laugh out of him. “Hold your horses, I’m comin’.”

Peeling off the BDUs felt like shedding a second skin. Despite all the tactical disadvantages of being naked it felt nice to be nothing but himself for a few moments. When he pulled back the curtain it was to reveal Arcade’s back turned to him. Warmth and water droplets engulfed him immediately as he stepped in and closed the curtain, suffering another moment of ineptitude while trying to find an appropriate place to stand. Arcade was washing his hair with the single bar of soap provided by the Wrangler.

He looked over his shoulder at Becket. Without glasses to hide them his eyelashes, clumped together from the water, were decidedly boyish. “Come up here. I’m almost done.”

Together they did a quasi-tango to rearrange themselves - Arcade’s hands on his shoulders, steering him to the showerhead and lingering on the damp skin. Becket kept his gaze strategically positioned. The subtle touches were already lighting him up and if he gave into the urge to stare his dick would _definitely_ be joining the party.

He focused on scrubbing the dirt away - clinical in the movements and harsh. The single washcloth provided was a scratchy thing meant to exfoliate germs, not feel luxurious. It did the job and that’s all that mattered. By the end of it his skin felt puffy and red, a stark contrast to Arcade’s pink. He caught a glimpse of their contrasting legs every time he leaned to clean his own. When he moved on to other areas he almost didn’t notice when Arcade’s fingers curled into his hair.

His voice was a low grumble. “M’hands aren’t _that_ bad.”

Arcade hummed and continued lathering soap into the strands. “Maybe so, but they aren’t good enough to multitask either. Grooming is a common social behavior, you know.”

“You tellin’ me all Followers get naked and handsy with their friends?”

“Only the ones with handsome companions”

Becket shook his head and smiled to himself. He continued washing while Arcade raked his fingers, almost like a massage, across his scalp. The special attention erased whatever headache had existed, instead making his mind feel soft around the edges. He could feel Arcade’s body heat radiating behind him, moving closer with his hands whenever there was a deeper roll of his palm. The urge to press back and lean against him was overwhelming.

When the massage continued down to his neck Becket’s perseverance snapped and he let out a low sound. It was embarrassingly pathetic, as if he were some prepubescent kid who had never been touched before. He couldn’t deny the slow swelling of his cock under such ministrations, either. Nothing significant but enough that he could feel the blood going southward in his veins.

Arcade didn’t tease him for it. The pause in his movement was so brief it could’ve been nothing at all if Becket hadn’t been moaning a second prior. Arcade just squeezed his neck a little tighter and continued back to his head.

It would be the cleanest his hair had ever been, no doubt.

“Becket.”

His eyes snapped open - a stupid move because flecks of soap immediately fell in - but before he could thrash Arcade crowded him forward until they were both pressed together under the showerhead. Arcade hands looped up around him to wipe his face clean, his chin tucked into Becket’s neck. When the soap was gone Becket closed his eyes and looked down so the water spilled over the crown of his head. Arcade’s arms lowered until they rested on his hip bones, unmoving in their gentle embrace.

“Do you want this? Now?” Arcade’s voice rumbled next to his ear, lower than he’d ever heard it before.

His own voice was quiet. His skin ached for more contact. “Yeah.”

Arcade turned him around and then there were lips on his, soft but firm, controlling the movements between them with a particular kind of finesse. Arcade wasted no time, pushing Becket against the shower wall and pulling their waists together in a filthy grind that had Becket moaning instantly. The tongue in his mouth was the perfect mix of overwhelming and possessive; every part of him felt owned in that moment - propped up by a thigh pressed between his own, hips moved by strong hands, his head buzzing with warmth - it was a whirlwind compared to the chaste touches from before.

“Ah,” he groaned, Arcade’s thigh providing the perfect surface to rub against. When his head tilted back Arcade moved in, mouthing along the skin the same way Becket had done when they were back in the tent. His hands twitched with unspent energy and he blearily searched for a place to put them, eventually deciding to curl into the muscled planes of Arcade’s back.

“Do you remember what I told you?” Arcade murmured into his ear. Becket opened an eye to glance at him.

“What?”

A strand of hair curled over his face. Disheveled. “In the tent, I said I’d tell you when you’re needed.”

He squinted, grasping at straws for a moment before the memory came. “Oh.”

“I’m referring to now, Becket. _Now._ ”

“Shit, yeah,” Becket gasped. One of Arcade’s hands left his waist and snaked between them to grab Becket’s cock. The sudden pressure, squeezed in Arcade’s perfect fucking hands, made him shudder as his eyes rolled back. Arcade’s laugh vibrated into his neck, his hand moving up and down steadily while Becket fought between bucking up and grinding down against Arcade’s thigh. Becket turned his head to the side, silently asking, and Arcade met him with another all consuming kiss.

The water thundered in his ear and drowned out the slippery sounds below - his hips gyrated into the movement with a mind of their own. He gasped against Arcade’s mouth as the heat sped up into something too sweet, the base of his dick throbbing. Too much too much too much-

“Arcade,” he tried to move his groin away, “stop.”

The hand left his cock immediately. They breathed into each other's space, foreheads pressed together while Arcade rubbed circles into his hips and Becket’s fingers spasmed. When he finally opened his eyes it was to meet Arcade’s own. His pupils were blown into black saucers.

“Let me fuck you.”

He could’ve come right then. He shut his eyes against the image and moaned.

“Wanna touch you first,” Becket pushed Arcade back half a step and sank to his knees, the tile unforgiving on his sore muscles but the view making up for it. He was now at eye level with Arcade’s swelling cock, not at hard as Becket’s but getting there. It was about the same length and size as his own and framed by a set of muscled thighs that screamed ‘I can outrun you _and_ crush you’. Wet hair stuck to his forehead and Arcade brushed it back, his fingers tugging the strands gently. Becket grinned up at him and held eye contact while leaning forward and taking the soft head into his mouth.

The taste of clean skin felt refreshing and he ran his tongue over the spongy surface, giving it a teasing suck and bob that had Arcade drawing in a harsh breath. The fingers in his hair tightened to hold him while Arcade bucked forward. Becket matched him and took the length in the rest of the way until his nose pressed against trimmed hair. His hands smoothed up and down the planes of Arcade’s thighs lovingly, squeezing the muscles and humming around the cock in his mouth.

Arcade choked on a gasp. “I should’ve known you’d be good with your mouth.”

Becket pulled off long enough to reply, “It’s a talent."

“So I see.” Arcade pulled him back down and moaned when Becket’s throat spasmed around him. Becket’s eyes closed as he worked the length as best as he could, curling his tongue along the underside and sucking with hollowed cheeks. The water above them began to cool down - there was only so much heat available and without it his skin began to pebble. Arcade took the brunt of it above him and grunted when the temperature began to interfere with the pleasure too much.

Arcade pulled Becket off with a lewd pop, the man below looking up at him with flushed cheeks and red lips. He looked debauched, unguarded - open in a way that fanned the proprietorial flames curling in Arcade’s gut. He pulled Becket’s hair up and forced him to look up.

“Get up.”

Becket surged up and kissed him again, almost desperately, and pulled Arcade in by his hips. They ground together for a minute or two before Arcade smiled against his mouth and pried away.

“Dry yourself off. Go get on the bed for me, yeah?”

Becket rolled his eyes and began to step out of the shower. “Anythin’ for you darling.” Arcade gave his ass a playful swat on the way out and laughed when Becket gave a startled grunt.

Becket grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it around himself loosely before fluffing his hair. That was where most of the water was anyway. The bedroom was much warmer than the bathroom thanks to all the steam released earlier and he felt his skin began to flatten once more. He made sure to towel off completely before settling in the center of the bed.

A thought popped into his head. “Shit,” he mumbled, turning over to reach the bedside table. It wasn’t a given that the Wrangler supplied their guests for these sorts of situations, but, if he had to bet… the drawer slid open and revealed some Followers’ brand condoms and lube. “Jackpot.” He grinned and pulled them out just as Arcade stepped into the room.

His hair was still damp but curling more with each minute. The signature set of black-rimmed glasses were once again affixed to his face and made him look older and sharper. He stood in the doorway, unabashed and looking down at Becket.

“You gonna stand there and stare all day? I believed I was promised a lil somethin’ special.” Becket drawled. His skin was beginning to feel itchy again. They needed to go before his thoughts started back up again and ruined everything.

Arcade shrugged. He was trying to be playful, Becket knew. “You were actually listening? That’s a first.”

“Arcade, please?”  He tried to say it casually, even lifting his voice at the end. Didn’t want to say what he meant - _comeherecomeherecomehere._

The doctor gave him a funny look again - narrowed eyes, harsh? soft? - but conceded, moving onto the bed and crawling above Becket in a few smooth movements. His long arms and legs weren’t gangly and awkward like Becket had joked in the past, they were strong and lean - caging him against the bed while Arcade leaned down to capture his lips once more. The weight above him felt grounding and he moaned into the kiss when Arcade lowered himself down so they were pressed together on all fronts.

He blindly pat the space next to them until his fingers curled around the bottle of lube. Becket grabbed it and pushed it into Arcade’s chest. The blonde broke away and looked down at it while Becket panted.

“Fuck me?” The words were almost a whisper. Arcade nodded and kissed the bridge of his nose before rising up and leaning back on his calves.

“Spread your legs.” Arcade murmured, gently moving them apart to bracket his own body. The bottle cap popped open easily and he watched as Arcade poured a glop on his fingers. His perfect fucking fingers. He pushed between Becket’s cheeks and spread the viscous liquid across his hole, and to Becket’s chagrin he only applied a teasing pressure.

Becket whined and bucked his hips into the touch. “Quit foolin’ around.”

“Are you really telling a doctor how to handle anatomy?” Arcade leaned forward and sucked his collarbones lazily. His other free hand snaked up to play with Becket’s hardened nipples.

“You bet your- ah,” Becket groaned, pushing down as the first finger entered him. Arcade masked the initial discomfort by further honing in on his nipples and pinching one gently between his teeth. They continued like that - Becket squirming beneath him while Arcade moved inside him. A moment later and he added another finger to the mix. Becket almost didn’t notice until they zeroed in on his prostate. His body wanted to roll up, to curl in on itself as that deep seeded pleasure buzzed through his groin, but Arcade held him down. “Fuck!”

“Enjoying yourself?” Arcade asked wetly against his chest.

Becket gasped out the words as the attack continued, fingers rubbing tight circles over the bundle. “You’re, ah, _shit,_ too good at that.”

“I _am_ a doctor.”

“Fuck yeah you are.” Becket laughed deliriously. The world was going fuzzy around the edges. His muscles were losing the tension only to clench up again when Arcade danced across his skin. His cock lay heavy and dripping on his abdomen, head swollen and twitching. He felt so _wet_ , as if Arcade were forcing the come out of him but holding back orgasm. His balls ached as more fingers were added and scissored inside him. He could feel Arcade’s cock poking into his thigh persistently - waiting - and he moaned at the thought of it. What it would taste like now that there was no water to wash away the taste?

“You gotta do it now.” He pushed Arcade off of him. His fingers pulled out slowly and Becket groaned at the empty feeling they left. He clenched around nothing and stared down at Arcade’s cock. “I’m gonna cum if you don’t. Wanna do it when you’re in me.”

Arcade cupped his face with one hand, his fingers pulling at Becket’s lip just slightly. “Say please.”

There was no point in pretending. “ _Please._ ”

Arcade reached to grab the box next to Becket’s head. He grabbed a packet and ripped the foil with his teeth before tossing the wrapper off the bed, eyes never leaving Becket’s while he rolled it on and grabbed the lube again to coat himself. His eyes closed and he moaned at the pressure. In that moment Becket realized he had never seen anything more fantastic than Arcade Gannon crouched above him, stroking his cock, with pleasure etched across his face.

“God, you’re perfect,” Becket murmured. Arcade cracked open an eye and gave him a small smile.

They repositioned themselves once last time before Arcade cupped under his knees and folded him forward. He gripped himself loosely and rubbed the head of his dick across Becket’s hole, savoring the feeling, before pushing in.

Becket’s body was more than ready. His fingers pressed half-moons into Arcade’s back and tried to pull him forward unsuccessfully. Arcade was an unmovable force slowly pressing into him. When Becket tried again to speed him up Arcade wrapped a hand around his throat - pressing down with a warning.

“Stay still. You asked for this, I’m giving you what you need.”

His eyes fluttered shut. He nodded.

“Good boy.”

By the time Arcade’s hips pressed against his own it felt like a lifetime had gone by. He squeezed his eyes shut as if that alone would block out the tension creeping back in. Arcade was right there, holding him steady and he still felt like he would break at any given time. There was a moment when they just breathed together, and then, without warning, Arcade pulled out and snapped his hips back. It was like all the air had been punched out of Becket - his mouth opening wordlessly while Arcade began moving in and out of him steadily. Firm thrusts that drilled him into the bed perfectly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” It was a mantra in his mind, everything buzzing. His skin wasn’t itching any longer. Arcade kissed him again and Becket focused on the feeling of a tongue in his mouth and the warm feeling in his gut. Arcade’s aim was off by centimeters - just barely brushing against his prostate and sending flares of pleasure through him.

“You feel perfect,” it was a growl against his swollen lips. Becket grinned hesitantly.

“Jus’ for you.”

Arcade’s aim made it that final distance, slamming into that perfect place just the way his fingers had. Becket arched under him and writhed when the hits kept coming. It was back to reaching that point of toomuchtoomuch and _please_ dontstop. His dick _hurt_ , so wound up and confused as to why he hadn’t cum yet.

He opened his eyes and stared at Arcade. His blonde curls were complete now and beautifully messed upon his head. “Touch me,”

Arcade’s hand left his throat and slowly caressed down Becket’s body. The thrusting sped up and Becket nearly cried when Arcade’s hand curled around his cock once more. It felt so fucking good- he whined into the crook of his arm and bit down on his lip. The hand on him was slippery and whipped around out of sync with the thrusts, creating a constant barrage of pleasure with no reprieve. Arcade tensed above him and bit into the soft skin of Becket’s neck, his movements becoming sloppy and losing pace. He whispered words into Becket’s ear “ _so good,_ ” “ _fucking perfect,_ ” and moaned.

“Come in me,” Becket babbled. The feeling in his gut was near overwhelming. “Arcade, come in me.”

“Fuck,” Arcade groaned and finally let go. His face went slack and Becket took it all in through hooded eyes, not wanting to miss a minute. Arcade kept moving throughout it all, still aiming true into that bundle, and Becket fell along with him. He hissed and made broken sounds as pleasure coursed through him, his cock pulsing in Arcade’s hand and dribbling between their heaving abdomens. The feeling of warmth that moved through him was perfect, caressing. He went limp in Arcade’s embrace and lay back, eyes closed and body twitching, while Arcade pumped weakly into his soft heat.

The movements slowed to a stop and the only sound in the room was their labored breathing. Not even the usual soundtrack of casino machines and bar fights could be heard from outside the room. There was blissful silence.

Arcade’s face was tucked in the crook of his neck, his breath hot and wet against Becket’s skin. Becket’s fingers twitched against his back, stiff from where they’d been curled, and he slowly began to straighten them out against Arcade’s shoulderblades. The dead weight felt nice and he liked the feeling of Arcade’s cock softening within him. A part of him wished they could stay like this forever, in these four walls.

Of course that was just a dream. A moment later Arcade huffed and drew himself up. His cock slid out slowly and both of them winced at the movement, partially because they missed the feeling and because of the aches settling in. He pressed a slow kiss into Becket’s jaw before pushing himself off the bed and tying off the condom. “I’ll be right back.”

Becket grunted and threw an arm across his face to block out the light. He felt empty without Arcade and the room no longer felt warm. His skin prickled again, discomfort settling in. The shadows in the back of his mind began to creep back now that nothing was holding him together. He could tell without looking that his hands were shaking.

It was all too much. Sisters and chems and robots - what the fuck was he supposed to do?

He knew when Arcade returned because the bed dented next to him and a moment later a warm washcloth slid over his skin. Neither of them spoke while Arcade wiped him down gently. When it was done he heard the cloth being tossed to the side of the bed.

“Becket?”

He moved his arm up so he could peek wearily at Arcade. He looked as beautiful as ever, hovering next to Becket with a pinched expression. Becket tried for a smile. “I’m ruinin’ it, aren’t I?”

Arcade sighed. He moved Becket around until they were able to maneuver the bedspread on top of them then slid behind him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He wrapped an arm around Becket’s midsection and effectively spooned him. Becket let out a shuddered breath and relaxed back into the warmth. One of Arcade’s hands carded through his hair.

“It’s okay to not be okay.” Arcade said quietly.

He laughed bitterly. “‘S’all startin’ to catch up to me now, isn’t it?”

“You _are_ human, despite what some say. I don’t know many others who would’ve lasted this long.”

“You bein’ here helps.” He admitted. The quiet part of his mind reeled away from such a confession. Weak.

Arcade felt like a balm against such thoughts. “Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he said it made Becket believe. He turned around and faced Arcade, a genuine smile on his lips. “Good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall... good news - this chapter was getting too long so I decided to split it in half, which means half of the next chapter is already written. i.e it won't take god knows how long to finish as per usual c: the next chapter will probably be the last one too, and all loose ends will be wrapped up then. See you then & hope this one was worth the wait!!


	11. Sidewinder's Pit

Sidewinder's Pit 

“If we choose to walk into a forest where a tiger lives, we are taking a chance. If we swim in a river where crocodiles live, we are taking a chance. If we visit the desert or climb a mountain or enter a swamp where snakes have managed to survive, we are taking a chance.”

\- Peter Benchley   
  


The walls encasing the Strip might have been some of the toughest in the Mojave, but that didn’t make the buildings inside any more special than the rest. The chems, whores and brick were made of the same stuff as the slums - the only difference was the Strip dressed nicer. But that’s the way things had always been, even before the war. Plagues were spreading and the world was tearing itself apart, but hell if it all wasn’t wrapped in an aesthetically pleasing facade. 

People were noticeably weary of the new Securitrons. The squatters who usually lounged outside the walls were now sat away from the simmering fire pits, instead lined up with their backs against a nearby building. The robots didn’t act any differently, really, they all roved the same paths and flickered the same way. The only difference was that they could obliterate you more efficiently now. And the new hats. 

The knowledge didn’t make it any easier for Becket to hack the front guard. Benny and Arcade were stood out of sight while he approached and slapped a quiet EMP on the bot's side. It jerked and fizzled a second later, slumping slightly to the left while Becket screwed open the front access panel. It only took a few seconds to type in the new commands and reseal the cavity. A few moments later the clunky death trap rebooted and rolled away, rendered practically blind to their presence. The rest of the guards in the area mirrored this one in particular, so if it was busted then so were they. Anyone who walked up to the gates could get in now if they wanted.

Arcade and Benny joined him, the later looking twitchy and pale, 

“Y’sure that thing’s cool?” He murmured. 

Becket pushed him forward by the shoulder. “Just get walkin’ before House realizes something’s fuzzy.” 

There was no way to get Benny into the Strip without someone noticing. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the second they walked in someone ran to tell Swank. Civvies knowing didn’t make a difference. The only person Becket was worried about was House. Chances are he’d know just as quickly as the rest, but at least it’d take longer for him to act if no one knew where  _ exactly _ Benny was. Messing with the gate guard gave them enough time to make it to the Tops. 

After that, Becket didn’t give a shit what happened to to him. House didn't tolerate traitors and neither did he.

Arcade took up the rear and the three of them moved quickly through the grounds. It was impossible to avoid attention but they tried acting like oil on water. Most people got the message and when they saw the look on his face; the rest scattered when they noticed the gun digging into Benny's spine. 

But despite the doom and gloom expression on his face Becket had been in a good mood that morning; waking up smothered under Arcade’s arm and warm sheets was more comforting than he ever could have imagined. His skin was wrinkled and compressed from deep sleep when he finally woke up, forty minutes past his pipboy alarm. The sudden movement woke Arcade immediately and the man curled harder around Becket, snuffling.

Warm puffs against his neck. “How are you feeling?”

Becket rolled over to look at him. He could feel the soreness in his legs and ass but it wasn’t a sharp pain. More like a deep ache that left him feeling pleasantly used. “Better. Could be more if you c’mere.”

Arcade's smile was soft. He barely cracked an eye open to look at Becket before leaning down to kiss him. It was lighter than Becket wanted, his stomach already rolling with the early dregs of arousal, and Arcade seemed to notice. Without breaking contact he rolled up to cage Becket against the bed, his pale body creating a barrier while they kissed deeper. 

By the time they broke apart Becket was out of breath, the sour taste of morning in his mouth. He opened his eyes and looked at the man hovering above; messed hair, a light flush, dilating eyes. He cracked a grin and Arcade rolled his eyes. 

“I didn't realize I'd turned into a comedian. I'll have to add that to the resume, right next to ‘Speaker of dead languages’ and ‘Plant doctor.’”

He rolled to press a wet kiss into Arcade’s wrist. “I was jus’ thinkin' about how suave you look without them glasses. It's like two different people. One of ‘em talks about Latin and the other drills me into the bed on command.”

“Can't say it's a trick I do at every party,” Arcade rolled off him with a huff. “My legs would fall off.”

Becket stretched. His body crackled and popped in all the right places for once. “Hmm, well I'd still like you. You can read me poetry next time.”

“So there's a next time, then? You aren't just using me for my sculpted body and endless wit?”

“Wouldn't dream of it, honey.”

The rest of the morning passed with a sense of levity that felt almost unnerving. It'd been so long since he felt light inside, safe. The two of them moved around quietly between banter and prepared for the day. They showered, Becket's hands pumping them together under the stream, before stepping out to load the guns and pack the stimpaks. 

Gabrielle and Benny were seated at the bar downstairs, the former swirling an orange, glowing drink around a dirty glass. The plan was simple: Benny was taking them to the Tops and showing them what his plan was - how he meant to get ‘power’. After that they were headed to House for another debrief. 

And after that? Off to find the Fiends who threatened Gabrielle. Simple. 

Her face lit up when Becket sauntered down the staircase. She swiveled out of the chair and went to meet him, the two sharing a brief half hug before launching into the day. 

“Damn, you look better. I kept an ear out last night ‘n case you came out to hang yourself from the stairwell or some shit,” she gave him a once over. 

“Was a bit preoccupied,” he resisted the urge to wink. He trusted her story but his mind still  fought against complete honesty. Doesn't do to get loose with someone you've only known a day. It'd take time for him to return to whatever relationship they had before. 

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. I heard. So, you heading out with lil’ Judas over there?”

Benny looked like he wanted to protest the nickname, but smartly chose silence. Becket hummed. “Yup. Dunno what he's got planned so m’not sure when we'll be back. You just sit tight here, alright? No runnin' off.” 

“Cold hair and booze on your tab? Fuck, I may never leave. What you packin’?” She bustled in closer and started pawing at his travel sack. 

“It's the Strip. Doubt they'll let me carry in a minigun. Just the basics. Some chems, bullets, fancy lad snacks for Arcade.” He grinned at the last part. Gabrielle frowned at him.

“Chems? What, like ‘paks?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Some Med-X, some Psycho.”

It was like someone lit a fire under her feet. She jerked the bag from his body and began rifling through it full heartedly. “Are you a fuckin’ idiot? You bein' serious right now?”

“There a problem?” His good mood began to wither. Again, it was… different to have his choices questioned. 

The exasperation was palpable. “Psycho? Really? What are you gonna do, take it and hope they’re squeamish?”

He snatched the bag back from her. “What are you talking about?” 

That seemed to stop her. She looked at him with confusion and narrowed eyes, before concern set in. “Oh shit, fuck. Of course y’dont remember that.”

“What?” He snapped at her. 

“You're allergic. To Psycho. There's some shit in it that fucks you up, or whatever. Makes you seize and get headaches and all that. Have you been taking it?” She looked down at the crook of his arms, eyeing for track marks. Becket found himself looking with her.

“Well, shit, yeah- not a lot, but yeah a few times when things have been tight.” 

She looked skeptical. “And you don't recall passin’ out like a beached fish? You sure about that?”

He shook his head. He really didn't take it often, once when he was in Novac fighting ghouls, a second time at Westside, and then-

Becket turned to Benny. “You remember me falling? Back at the Tops?”

“Well sure, after I gave you a good ringing. A one-two to the neck when you turned to get some other freaky knife to go ape with. You went down like a log, and I beat feet.” Benny twitched a little. He looked significantly healthier than he had the day prior. 

Arcade eyed him critically. “A seizure would explain your reaction and loss of time.”

“You hit him in the neck?” Gabrielle echoed. Her face was scrunched up in distaste. “The fuck?”

“Woah now, no need to-” 

“Can’t shoot from three feet, punches necks, how the hell did you think you'd take over Vegas?” Gabrielle sighed, almost wistful. Before Benny could cut in she looked back to Becket. “Point is, don't fuck around with it, got it? You wanna get mad, just ask the Suit to tell you some of ‘is pickup lines.”

Becket stared down at the syringe. He passed it to her without words. Another thing that could've killed him, right under his nose. The heavy weight from before began to settle in his bones, the low simmering hatred for the Chairman currently sat in front of him. 

Gabrielle seemed to pick up on his soured mood. She pushed Benny off the chair and softly slapped her brother on the back.

“Get gone, Becket. I'll see you later.”

* * *

Swank looked like he was going to shit a radroach. His head jerked between Benny and Becket as if the courier just pulled a ghost out of the floorboards.

“Boss? What the- we- we thought you were swinging with the Big Cat upstairs. Iced. Piling up Z’s.”

Becket nudged the gun pointedly, moving back a little so Swank could see the glistening metal. “Not yet. Got business in his room, y’mind?” 

“Sure,” Swank replied, a little lamely. He watched the three of them cross the lobby and didn't blink until the elevator doors creaked shut. 

The elevator itself was a rattling nightmare. Perfectly safe by wasteland standards but the sound was enough to unnerve Arcade. He scowled at the ceiling. 

“You've seen better?” Becket needled.

“Believe it or not, I have. Its impressive they've gotten it to work but that doesn't mean I trust it.”

The hallway guards had the same reaction as Swank - silent disbelief and a morbid curiosity when they noticed their estranged boss being poked by a revolver. No one gave them any trouble. 

The first time Becket was here he'd never bothered to check Benny's suite - too busy being dragged out by Boone while he bled out and fizzled in the head. The space was relatively clean and untouched, looking like no one had been in since Benny’s disappearance. Once inside with the doors locked Becket took the gun away from Benny's back. 

“Alright, show us.” 

* * *

“Okay, it's done. Smooth, smooth. The world is your oyster, bossman.” Benny backed away from Yes Man slowly with his hands raised. 

The bot flickered in its eerily optimistic way. “It's true! I am physically incapable of refusing you now! My programming is locked onto you and only you.” 

Arcade stood to his side, eyeing the securitron wearily. “And you're sure House can't detect him in the system? The Followers have tried hacking one before, it never works.”

“Funny of you to mention, Four Eyes. It was one of your gals who reprogrammed the shiny stud in the first place.”

He seemed to file the information away for later. Becket continued to stare at the smiling face. 

“Okay. You…,” he waved his hands at Yes Man. “Just stay there. I'll be back later. Benny, outside.”

Benny's face went pale, his eyes a little steely. It didn't take a genius to know the cogs were turning in his little reptile brain. Figuring out the best way out, what he could say, could do, to avoid splattered brains on his nice clean wallpaper. 

Becket pointed to the suite with his gun. “Your feet dead? Get going.”

Benny walked a few paces ahead. Arcade walked beside him and spoke quietly. “Will you kill him?” It was said neutrally. 

“Dunno.”

When they returned to the lobby there were a few dozen new faces meshed in with the casino crowds. Chairmen who wanted to get one last look at Benny before he disappeared through the doors forever. Swank fidgeted at the door, now armed. Becket pressed the pistol further into the fatty tissue of Benny's back. 

Surprisingly, no one did or said anything. Seeing so much slicked hair had put Becket on edge, but when Swank made eye contact with Benny it was a moment frozen in time. The subtle power balance of the tribe was shifting and the camaraderie they once had was phasing into something different. The Chairmen looked at him like he was already dead - a respectful wall between them and him. An almost pity for someone you used to care about. 

No one stopped them from leaving. 

“Fucking pansies.” Benny muttered. 

The moment they stepped through the Tops frosted doors Becket shoved Benny ahead of him. The man skidded, eyes a little wild, before straightening up. His eyes darted around the Strip. 

Becket spun the pistol barrel. “That bot the only thing you have to offer?”

“The only thing a player like you would find useful.” 

“You shoot me in the damn head, take my life away, and expect a hunk of metal to make up for it?” 

The playfulness that seemed permanently etched into Benny's features was gone. In the flashing lights of the Strip he looked much older. The lines on his face were etched deep with exhaustion; like snakes giving up after tiring themselves out. “Nah. Something tells me a fella like yourself won't ever be happy. Could be surrounded by the nicest broads and boatloads of caps and you'd still find something to gripe about.”

A couple of blitzed NCR recruits stumbled by. They didn't notice the gun. The thrumming of his blood was deafening. There was no reason to keep the slimy fucker around, not when the cons were so numerous. 

He wasn't the only impatient one. “So, you gonna shoot me or what? I have to say, it's now how I pictured goin' out. Always thoughts I'd get suffocated by some charlies or backstabbed by Swank.”

“Tough.” Becketed dismissed. Behind him, Arcade's eyes bore into his skull. He didn't want to meet the gaze. Like looking your mom in the eye while you steal from the cookie jar. 

The pistol felt too light in his hand. Like a toy. Too easy to fling around. He glared at Benny instead and the man scowled back with a thousand years of bitterness. Outplayed. 

“Any last words?”

“Fuck you?”

He cocked the barrel back into place. Safety off. He waited until Benny's eyes were shut and the silence closed in like a blanket. 

When he fired the blank it was like someone punched all the air out if Benny's body. The man flinched, body crumpled in fear, stuttering to fight the bullet that would never come. 

Adrenaline made Becket's hands jittery. He quickly shoved the gun back into Arcade’s hands and knelt down to Benny's height. 

“If I ever see you again I will skin the flesh from your bones with my bare hands. I don't wanna hear about you, see you, smell you, or remember you. Get out before I take that fuckin’ gun back and put somethin’ real in it.” 

There was a split second of hesitation, and then Benny disappeared into the crowds. 

* * *

Victor was the lawful neutral equivalent to Yes Man’s eagar-to-please chaos. When Arcade and Becket strolled into the Lucky 38 the securitron waited until they were in range before cycling through greetings. The awkward cramping of the elevator was made even more uncomfortable by the knowledge of Yes Man and the constant shaking of Becket's body. Arcade did what he could; running fingertips down Becket's forearms in a soothing motion until the smaller man settled.

He'd forgotten about the blank. In the heat of the moment he'd been fully prepared to execute Benny on the Strip pavement, but as soon as he'd pulled the trigger a wave of regret hit so hard it threw him off center. Remembering the dud was almost euphoric.

He couldn't tell what Arcade thought if it all - probably saw Becket as some merciful tragedy. At the moment he didn't really care. The hands holding him were all he needed and more.

The elevator dinged. Someone dusted since their last visit. 

The securitrons were different, too. The ‘girls’ were still guarding the front entrance but the rest of the room was flanked by the new military upgrades. Arcade had been given clearance to enter the level but only if he stayed boxed between the girls, Victor and the elevator. No direct line of sight with House. 

The air still tasted stale in his mouth but it wasn't overly cloying or reeking of rust. The afternoon sun poured in through the windows and the resulting glare hid half of House's face on the monitor. The same green. 

“Security tells me Benny was seen entering the Tops less than an hour ago,” House began. “I find it hard to believe he managed that on his own.” 

Becket shrugged. “He's not your problem anymore.”

“He never was. Benny was a loose end, one I assumed you would cut loose. But it seems those nuances were lost on you. It's no matter, what's done is done.” He could feel the dismissive gestures even through the screen. “Now that our business at Fortification Hill is concluded it's time for the next steps.”

Arcade watched him from the top of the stairs with hawkish intensity, prepared for things to go bad at the drop of the hat. Becket cleared his throat.“Never said I was on board for all that. You got your fancy robots and I found what I needed anyways. This is end of the line.”

Silence, then, “I heard you picked up a raider. Certainly you weren't so naive as to believe everything she told you? Anyone can be convincing when they already smell blood in the water.”

The needling made his heart flip. The tingling insecurities that whispered  _ don't trust her  _ in the back of his mind were overjoyed from the acknowledgement. He reminded himself that House was just as good at smelling weakness. So on came the hollow confidence. “Even if she is, don't matter. Still done workin’ for you.”

“And risk losing your single reliable source of information? The common man is defined by his self interest. If you won’t see past your shadow think of what lies ahead. There is a much larger picture you've yet to see. The future of the Strip will be decided in these walls - rejecting that opportunity to indulge in fantasy is not only reckless, but distasteful.”

The speech felt like someone reading a pamphlet. The glossy, fluffed up images of grandeur that reminded him of prewar magazines and cherry-red models. Inorganic.

“I did your dirty work because you promised to give me something back. And hell, it was never a convincin’ pitch but a desperate man does what he needs to.” Becket spat at the flickering face. “Now, I was in a literal  _ pit _ with that damn raider for thirty minutes and she made more sense than you have in weeks of cryptic bullshit.”

House sighed, as if dealing with another human instead of code was exasperating. “You're letting your emotions guide you. If you'd bothered to think you would've asked the locals about her reputation before starting this new crusade. A known con and thief? Did it not cross your mind that half of the Mojave knows your story? How easy it would be to compose a sister narrative?” 

_ Smart. _ The words were thought and dashed quickly. He squeezed the next out with a grimace. “No raider is gonna concoct a story like that-” 

“Blood in the water, Courier. The world as it is follows the scent like a drug, and, as you say, a desperate man does what he must to regain comfort. Even if that means becoming a pawn.”

It felt like a snake constricting around him. Everything House said sounded right. He wasn't spewing out something with no backbone or depth - everything mentioned was a complete and likely possibility. The thought had his heart in a vice grip. Could he have been so stupid? 

House seemed to take his answer as a silent concession. He launched into the next speech as if he hadn't just popped the bubble Becket had blown round his heart. Vague plans and notes were thrown at him, names he didn't recognize like Boomer and Brotherhood. He wasn't really listening. 

If you looked at it mathematically, statistically, he'd been a fool. On paper it looked like the kind of thing a friend's friend falls for while the rest of you laugh. Too much coincidence. Too many perfect pieces. 

Becket was a hollow man. In his heart of hearts, that was just the truth. Sometimes ‘feelings things’ felt like slipping on an ill-fitted suite and only wearing it for as long as the situation called for. In his short life there were only a handful of times when it'd felt real, tangible, and skin deep. When Arcade held him. When he touched the scarred name on his foot. When Gabrielle stood and said she was family. 

In a way he couldn't explain, beyond any real proof, it felt real. It had to be, or none of it would mean anything. 

“- while you're gone I'll deal with  _ that _ distraction. In time you'll realize there are more important things than the past. What we're doing is building the future.”

He happened to glance in his peripheral. Arcade was fighting the line between ‘somewhat concerned’ and ‘vehemently fighting the urge to interrupt’, so when he realized he had Becket's attention he curled his fingers impatiently. 

“Gimme a moment,” Becket interrupted whatever House had been saying. He didn't listen to the offended sigh that wheezed back through the monitors. 

His legs felt wobbly going back up the stairs. There was a sense of dread pulling him in every direction, and on top of that a hundred splintering threads of pros and cons that wound up making one hell of a web.

Whatever Arcade whispered to him in that moment would make or break his decision. When reaching the landing he pulled Arcade back into the open, stuffy elevator so they'd be out of sight, their mouths hidden from the dozen twitchy cameras just outside. 

Arcade pressed him into the corner, his breath warm against Becket’s cheek. “You can't trust him.”

“I know that!” He hissed back. “But what if he's right? About  _ that _ ?”

“I don't know. I can honestly say, without a doubt, that I have no idea whether she can be trusted or not. But that isn't our problem right now.” Arcade grabbed his hand, interlocking their fingers together in a slippery mess. “Right now he's deciding whether or not you're an asset or another loose end. Neither option is a good one.”

He felt the hopelessness bubbling over. “So what? You want me to march in there and kill a fuckin’ man-made god?”

Arcade stared at him. Unblinking.

Becket closed his eyes. “You want me to just that.”

“Yes.”

“But what if he's right? What if I kill him and he actually does know the truth? I already let Benny go. If that girl is lyin’ then I'll never know. It'll all be…” he used his free hand to cover his face. “Fucking pointless. All of it.”

“There's no point in living if you'll just be a pawn. A life where everything is chosen for you, where you sit in the dark, wondering what you'll be forced to endure day in and out. You might as well kill yourself now.” 

Becket slumped forward. Their intertwined hands were awkwardly bunched between them but it didn't matter. He thumped his head on Arcade’s shoulder. “If she's lying I'll kill her, you know that?”

“I know.”

“I can't do this anymore, Arcade.”

“I know.”

* * *

As it turned out, a handful of securitrons and a single control panel were poor measures against assassination attempts. Especially when said assassins are hyped up on quickly injected Med-X and popped Buffout.

The firefight was a blur. They exited the elevator, promptly blasting a hole in Victor's face before rushing the two girls. He barely heard House's yell of “ _ idiot! _ ” before the big monitor below flickered out and the metal shutters began lowering down to shield the windows. 

The chems acted quickly. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and seeped into his skin, giving the illusion of a tougher epidermis and sturdier bones. Arcade kept at a distance and fired grueling shots at the securitrons while Becket fired close range and reloaded as quickly as his jittery fingers could go. The element of surprise had been a huge advantage. 

When the last bot fell they heard, more than saw, the elevator close and begin descending, likely off to pick up incoming forces. Arcade scrambled down the stairs quickly and began hacking the monitor. 

“Do it do it do it do it!” Becket chanted under his breath. He bounced around Arcade on the tips of his toes. When the wall began sliding open he didn't wait before squirming through the barely-there slit. 

Arcade yelled after him “What- stop!” 

The inner sanctum seemed to be the source of all foul smells the casino harbored. Bleach cleaned metal and centuries old air that felt heavy in his lungs. It felt more like a cave than a room. The walls were lined with flashing red lights, only interrupted by a white beam in the center of the room. 

House's body was twitching in its case, unconscious but aware of what was about to happen. 

It only took a moment to type in the override commands and watch the case open. By then Arcade was in the room with him. It only took one shot. 

And the house crumbled.

Yes Man transferred over immediately. The securitrons stopped firing at them. He was barely listening to what Yes Man was saying, instead focused on leaving as quickly as possible. Arcade tried to hold onto him but Becket squirmed free and darted for the elevator.

“I have to know, Arcade. I have to know right  _ now. _ ” 

All the doors seemed to glide open for him. Strip visitors stared at him with wide saucer eyes and trembling hands. The god killer, walking in daylight. 

His clothes were singed from the electric bursts and his pistol was still equipped, out and flying, when he ran around corners. The chems were still making his veins swell and pulse in his arms, his eyes. He didn't even need help pushing the Strip gates open to exit and enter Freeside.

Getting back to the Wrangler felt like seconds. Maybe he'd been running through the streets, or maybe it all just blended in together in the background. Not like the criers were pawning new tech anyways. 

People slamming in and out of the Wrangler wasn't anything new. It happened at least a handful of times each night when someone had either lost a small fortune at roulette or got turned away at the bar. It was a place where emotions, good, bad or hazy, ran high. When the plexiglass door rattled on its hinges Francine didn't even look up from the dirty mug she'd been washing. 

“Fran,” he began. Her eyes slid up at his tone.

“Yeah?”

He didn’t look at her, too busy scanning over the patrons sat in dark corners. “Where's that woman I came in with yesterday?” 

“She left a while ago. Racked up your tab a few handfuls first, but I knew you were good for it.”

The warmth of anger began to seep out like steam from his veins, leaving nothing left but a chill. “How long ago? Where'd she go?”

“I wasn't crawling up her ass, Becket.” Francine scowled. “Wherever she went, it was thirty minutes after you left.”

“Well, fuck me.” He swiped a half-drunk glass of whiskey from the bar, abandoned by someone who'd gone up to the stage. Francine watched him down the rest of it in a gulp.

“Bad news, then? Shit, you don't have to tell me how you feel. We’ve been conned before.”

The door rattled again as Arcade darted through. He saw Becket and seemed to deflate at the sight, his shoulders dropping as all the air in his lungs huffed out. 

“What happened?” He panted. 

Becket hummed, the sound dipping and off-note. “She's gone.”

Arcade slid in slowly. “Gone?”

“She ran as soon as we left.” Francine poured him another finger. The whiskey was too warm. 

He seemed to fumble for words, unable to discern Becket's mood on the spot. “And you're… Drinking?”

“Mmhmm. Gonna finish this. Then I'm going.” 

“As impressive as it is to plow through five securitrons and an old world sociopath, it doesn't mean you're invincible. She's had more than enough of a head start. Another day won't make a difference.” Arcade leaned in. Not quite caging him against the bar but the implication was there. Becket turned in the stool. 

“I'm goin’. You can stay here. Won't take long to put a bullet in her anyways.”

“It’s not worth it.” 

“To you, maybe.” Arcade didn't know what it felt like. To be used. Over and over and over again until there was nothing left to squeeze out. He finished his drink. Arcade stepped aside to let him stand, and Becket blinked at him owlishly, having expected a fight. Arcade sighed.

“I won't take the choice away from you.”

His throat constricted. It was an ugly feeling. “I told you I would do it.” The pistol from earlier was still curled in his left hand.

“I know.”

They stared at each other in the dim light of the casino. It wasn't what he really wanted, but at least it was something. Another quest to keep him focused, another goal. Without it what would he be? Just another aimless scavenger wandering the Mojave, shooting up and fighting for caps. It was a tangible purpose. 

He heard, more than saw, the door stutter open a third time. All it took was a glimpse at red hair for him to raise the pistol and aim for the newest inhabitants of the Wrangler. 

Gabrielle ducked as if the instinct had been drilled into her grey matter, one hand swiping out to grab the second person and jerk them behind her. It was a kid. At the sight, Arcade knocked his wrist down until the crosshairs were pointed at carpet. 

Gabrielle yelled, shooting back up when she realized he hadn’t fired. “What the fuck? What the fuck!’

“Where'd you go?” Becket shoved past Arcade and met her head on. 

She stomped forward to meet him with a deep set scowl. When he got too close she shoved him back. “You ever try’n shoot me again and I'll knock you out a month straight.” 

“Is that a threat?” 

“What's got your panties in a bunch? I stepped out to pick some things up. Didn't know you were so fuckin’ clingy.” She sneered the last word. 

Sets of eyes were on them now. The ringing chimes of slot machines were still the most prominent feature in the room but he bet their yelling was second. Probably more interesting, too. He lowered his voice a fraction. “Pick what up?”

She heaved out a exasperated sigh and turned her body a little so he could see past. She gestured wildly to the kid behind her. “What do you fuckin’ think? A sack of corn? First time she's seen you in a year and you try to shoot her!”

His brows furrowed. He leaned until he could see the kid in full, who was staring back at him with big eyes and a dirty face. She looked about 12 - maybe? - and had a mop of curly brown hair similar to his own. It looked like someone had made a poor attempt to brush out the strands but gave up halfway through. On the right side of her face, peeking out from the frizz, was a gnarly scar that wound back to her ear. 

She didn't look distressed by their fighting. Only patience and a subtle excitement could be seen on her face. It felt like someone dumped a bucket of water on his fire-hot anger. 

Becket looked back at Gabrielle with startled eyes and a thudding heart. “Who is she?”

At his question the girl’s mouth dropped, a look of hurt on her face. He opened his mouth to say something, anything to set her back, but nothing came out. Gabrielle gasped. 

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” she left Becket and walked back to her. The girl gave Gabrielle a wilted look and started making motions with her hands, the movements quick and frantic.

Gabrielle started motioning back. He desperately tried to follow along but only caught the more explicitly obvious things - Gabrielle pointing at himself, mimicking shooting a gun. She glanced back at him with full focus. 

“I already explained this to her earlier. She just didn't think you'd really forget ‘er.”

She must've seen his distraught state because she said one more thing before standing up again. “Becket,” she began slowly. 

He ignored the question and nodded back to the girl. “Why isn't she talking?” 

“She can't hear, numbnuts. Now if you shut it I'll tell you what you wanna know.” She scowled at him and waited for a moment of silence before continuing. “The one you fuckin’ carved into your foot? That’s her. Nelly. I left this morning so I could go grab ‘er from across town, just for you. You're fuckin’ welcome.”

Sensing she was the topic, Nelly came forward. She still stood behind Gabrielle but her focus was on Becket. She stared at him intently and at the scar on his forehead. He stared at her scars in turn, resisting the urge to reach out and touch them. 

“Why can't she hear?”

“Infection - when we were babies. Doc tried cutting her open to fix it but it was too late. Couldn't do a damn thing.” Gabrielle did what he couldn't and brushed a strand of hair away from Nelly's scar. She batted the hand away with an annoyed look. 

“Then- how- fuck, how do I talk to her?” He asked. Nothing came to mind. He didn't know the signs or movements. He couldn't even say hello.

Gabrielle tapped the side of his cheek with her hand to get his attention. He flinched at the light batting but paid attention. 

“You're the one who taught me this,” she smiled briefly. And began going through the motions. He made an awkward attempt to follow and when it was deemed acceptable, mirrored it back to Nelly. She gave him a sad smile and mimicked, only adding a small difference to the end.

“What did I say?” He asked Gabrielle. 

“‘Hello, I'm back.’”

He frowned. “She said something different?”

Gabrielle sighed. “She just said, ‘hello. I missed you.’” 

He dropped his face into his hands. They felt clammy and shaky against the thin skin of his eyelids. “I didn’t miss her. I didn't remember. I wanted to know so fuckin’ bad but there was nothing there, Gabi.”

Her strong armed wrapped around him in a brutal hug that felt like she was trying to squeeze the sadness out of him. He wheezed and dropped his hands from his face to get more room. She murmured in his ear. “It’s ok. We know.”

She pulled away but left her hands on his shoulders, squeezing. She looked around the room for a minute before nodding towards an empty table in one of the corners. “S’been a long day. Let's go sit down, huh? Bring your man. Meet the family.”

He nodded weakly and they separated. She reiterated the plans to Nelly and they walked to the table together while Becket looked at Arcade with pleading eyes. 

“Please?”

Arcade took his hand and squeezed, a little smile on his face. “You couldn't get rid of me if you tried. I've never been introduced to the family before. I'm sure it'll live up to every expectation.”

So the four of them sat at the dingy table in the back of the room and Francine brought them drinks as time started to tick by. His heart still rattled like a broken engine and every time Gabrielle told him about something he'd forgotten it felt like nausea would sweep him away. But then Nelly would smile and tell him a joke he'd forgotten the punch line to, and grin so much wider when it forced a laugh out of him. 

For every new piece to the puzzle there were five more that fit into place. They explained his scars and quirks, why his knee always acted up. 

Beneath the table he held Arcade’s hand in a death grip. Every time he felt overwhelmed that anchor was there to center him again. Long fingers rubbing circles into the rough skin of his hands, squeezing back at just the right moments. 

He didn't let go until they went to bed that night.

* * *

Driver Nephi was the last of the Fiend bosses. The rest had drastically dwindled over the weeks prior until the remainders were nothing more than glorified scavengers. Clearing out the Vault had gone smoother than expected. The place had been crawling with twitchy, chem drenched raiders who all seemed blessed with quick trigger fingers. But despite that, the numerous hallways and rooms offered more than enough cover to slowly take them out one by one. Motor Runner was the prize at the end.

Nephi and a few others were the few who hadn't been home that day. Leaving them alone would have been fine - they didn't have business with him or his family - but it seemed cleaner to get rid of loose ends. 

Plus, there  _ was _ a bounty. 

He and Arcade were camped out in the ruins west of Westside that overlooked the last known Fiend territory. Nephi was in his sights but kept moving around behind support beams and other Fiends. Getting a headshot would have been easy but would ruin the bounty. So instead he waited until he could get a clear shot to the heart or neck. 

They'd been there for several hours already, in no big hurry. The weather was nice and Arcade did some inventory while Becket scoped. It was peaceful. 

“They burnt another steak,” Becket sighed.

Arcade hummed. “Enough jalapeño could drown that out.”

Becket made a sound of disgust. Nephi moved under an awning and sat down to eat. Out of sight for at least 30 minutes. He set the rifle down and rolled onto his back. Light streamed down through the beams overhead and shone into his eyes. 

“How much is that bounty?”

“250?”

Becket scowled. “We could make that by selling my boot.” 

“You'd really run around with one shoe? Think of the cacti.”

“You could carry me.”

“Only to bed.” Arcade murmured. Becket grinned to himself and they left it at that. 

It’d been several weeks since his first meeting with Nelly and Gabrielle. Things had calmed down a lot since then; he and Arcade began taking jobs solely in and around Freeside so they could stay close by. He'd seen them almost every day since then. His other sister, Steph, was still out of town, but she wrote.

Gabrielle had sent a letter to her the day after Becket met Nelly and they'd only just gotten a reply. It was a long, long thing that'd made his eyes hurt but left him feeling warm. She was off trading with another settlement a state over but would be back soon. In the letter she mainly talked about herself, explaining what she did and how they grew up together. He appreciated the quick catch up and wrote his own reply that same day. 

Taking out the Fiends was the first on his to-do list. Every time he saw Gabrielle looking over her shoulder it only made him want to finish quicker. When he'd killed Motor Runner they'd been up til dawn drinking in celebration. 

After that it was Yes Man. The chipper bot gave him plans that were similar but fundamentally different from House's - something he was adamant about. Those jobs were some of the most memorable. He'd already cleaned up the White Gloves and was moving onto Gomorrah soon enough. After they collected Nephi’s bounty it was their next destination. 

He felt better than he had in months.

Arcade finished repacking. He pushed the bag away with a sigh. “Alright, it's all sorted. To think, this brain has been relegated to secretary duty.”

“You’re welcome to take over sniper duty.” Becket nudged the rifle towards him. Arcade scoffed.

“I think I’ll stick to energy weapons, if you don’t mind.”

Becket rolled back onto his belly and realigned the sights. Nephi was still eating. “Can’t exactly say you’re bad with ‘em. You could probably hit him from here with one.”

Arcade snorted. “Your faith in my skills is astonishing.”

The idle chatter helped steady his hands. “Or m’faith in the fella who taught you. And that was…?” Nephi was tearing apart the last few bites of his steak. It was a grisly sight. At his feet were two dogs who were trained just barely enough to stop them from nipping the last bite off the plate. One of them had a roughed up collar that looked like it might fit Rex. But before he could get a better look Becket realized the silence had drawn out a moment too long. He quickly glanced back at Arcade. His lips were drawn into a thin line and there was a scrunch in his brow. 

When Becket peeked back Arcade looked away. “You’ve shared your entire life with me. In the grand scheme of things, it seems ridiculous to hide mine from you.”

“S’not ridiculous to cover your own ass.” Becket murmured. He’d turned back to the sniper sights to give Arcade some sense of privacy. If they were going to have this conversation it might go smoother if Becket wasn’t staring holes into his head.

“I’m not ready yet. But I will be, soon.” There was a sense of finality there. No ‘if’s or ‘maybe’s. Becket smiled to himself. 

“Well, I’ll be here when you are. Take your time, hon. S’not like we won’t be busy in the meantime.”

It got a small chuckled out of him. Arcade used the toe of his shoe to jab Becket’s thigh. “Half the people here owe you their lives. You’ll be mayor before you know it.”

“If that happens you go ahead and shoot me again. Last thing I need is to be runnin’ that snake pit.”

“I think you’d be good at it.” Arcade hummed. 

Nephi dumped the plate onto the ground. The dogs immediately began fighting over the scraps, drool flinging and jaws snapping. The Fiend stepped out into the sunlight and raised his arms to stretch. Becket straightened up. Lined up. The rifle was silenced so the only thing they heard was a soft pop. A moment later Nephi crinkled to the floor and on top of his dish.

He set the rifle down and cracked his neck. The stiffness rolled out with every satisfying crunch. 

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfic has been with me through 4 broken bones, a breakup, two laptops, dropping out & reentering college, a dozen hospital visits, and two-ish years of violent procrastination. Thank you all for waiting it out with me - I probably never would've finished it without your feedback and comments <3
> 
> I wrote & rewrote this chapter a few times because it never seemed to be what I wanted. In the end this version was my favorite and I hope it answers any lingering questions. If there's anything that wasn't clear or something you just want to know (what route Becket picks, how he reacts to Arcade's past, what happens after it all, etc) drop a comment and I'll explain! 
> 
> thanks again, I hope you enjoyed (:


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